The Hair Cut from Hell

May 17, 2008 - Saturday

Tucker graduated from pre-school yesterday. He wore a little cap and gown and everything.

Tonight, he's at a friend's house for his first official sleepover. My baby is growing up. The biggest evidence of his maturity, however, is his behavior. He lets Keaton sit in the green chair (quite a big deal). He carries his own backpack from the car. He's a good kid.

Today, Keaton and I made an appointment to get our hair cut. Now, the person who has cut my hair the last few times was busy, but I needed a hair cut. So I just scheduled an appointment with whoever was available. This is, by the way, a bad choice.

Things looked good. My stylist was finishing up a lady with a cut almost exactly the way I wanted my hair, and it looked fabulous! Keaton told me that he wants me to go first, so Trey and Keaton take off to walk the mall while I get my hair cut. The time is 4:14.

BoyStylist asks what I want done. I explain that I want exactly what he did with the last lady, only shorter in the front. (She had that thing going on where her hair was longer in the front than the back, and I'm not cool enough to pull that off.) This is apparently very confusing. VERY CONFUSING. "Wait. I don't think I understand," he shrugged. And this was only the beginning.

For the next 58 minutes, he cut my hair into what we will forever refer to as "The Manly Woman" (not that there's anything wrong with that ). I kept thinking he was going to speed it up because from his shaking I could tell it was time for his next dose of crack. If I needed my crack, I could cut hair a lot faster, I think, but I'm not a crackhead so I don't actually know.

Finally, Praise God, he was finished with "The Manly Woman!" My neck was throbbing from staying perfectly still under his shaking hands, and I was so thankful that the torture was finally over.

Then, he began to style the cut.

First, he dried my hair with a flat brush - not a round brush like a normal stylist - but the same kind of brush we use on my 3 year old boy's hair. Following the blow-out, he starts flat ironing my hair. Now, when I say flat ironing, I mean FLAT ironing. He was unstoppable! My hair would be completely flat if it killed us both. After almost burning off my left ear, his masterpiece was complete. I took my almost Van Gogh self, sporting the newly coiffed "Manly Woman" right out of his chair.

Then it was Keaton's turn. Immediately, he nicked Keaton's right ear with the scissors. Only Keaton, my surprisingly stoic child in the stylist's chair, didn't even flinch. So we didn't know the ear was injured until the blood starting running down the side of his face. BoyStylist immediately ran to the back for a band-aid, and when he returned, he couldn't figure out how to get it open. It was just a standard band-aid, but perhaps BoyStylist had no experience with this modern medical wonder. I yanked the bandage from his hand and took over. Poor little Ke-Ke sat there quietly as his lip began to quiver ever-so-slightly. I guess the idea of becoming Van Gogh, the son of Almost Van Gogh with "The Manly Woman," was just too much for his almost 3 year old psyche.

A blood-soaked towel and three band-aids later, we were free. BoyStylist didn't charge us for Keaton's cut. I guess the only other thing I could have asked him to do was provide a pint of his crack-laden blood for my poor, now-anemic child. We paid our bill and moved on.

Surprisingly, Keaton's hair looks pretty good. I remembered that I have a family friend who recently burned off all of her hair trying to bleach it, so she shaved her head and bought a wig.

Maybe I can borrow the wig for a while. I suppose vanity is a sin anyway, so maybe this is how I'm supposed to let go of my vanity...

Well, that's all I guess. The phone just rang. It's Tucker calling from his first sleep-over. He needs his mommy. I'm glad he's not quite grown up yet.