A haircut: more than just cutting hair

When BMoC was born, I was ill-prepared for a 10lb baby. I mean, I could see that I was LARGELY pregnant, so much more distended than my cuter-while-pregnant friends. But at a mere 5’4”, I just didn’t figure I could and would birth a linebacker. Surprise.

I also didn’t expect said linebacker to be a yeti. My little/large BMoC was covered in hair. So much hair all over his head, then growing down his neck and back. Even little tufts on his shoulders. And in my first moments of mommy delirium I thought “I love you so much, you fuzzy little bear.”

Well, thank goodness that fluff fell off and is no longer BMoC's defining physical trait. Nor is it for his brother or sister, both also born in the same furry state. But all three still have thick heads of hair. They have ever since they were born—BMoC clearly needing and therefore getting his mullet cut within that first week of life. And ever since then, once a month, we line 'em up and clean 'em up.

The day I shear my sheep is not a fun day in the House of M. You see, I’m the one who does it. And, since I’ve always cut Husband’s hair, it never occurred to me to send my kids to a professional. (I guess what I could have asked instead is why Husband won’t pay money for a professional to cut his own hair, but then we’ve already established how, ahem, 'frugal' Husband can be…) Anyway, if I can save some $$$ by wielding scissors and clippers at home, I can further justify spending ridiculous amounts of cash on my own hair hat.

So this weekend it was time.

“Guess what everyone?! Haircuts today!”

An announcement met with a defeaning “Noooooooooooooooooooooo!”

“Yep. Who’s first?”

Because BMoC is the first born, he defaults to being first up.

Now, let me refresh your memory: BMoC is but only 5 years old. He is in PreK. He is not an adult runway model working in Milan, nor is he even trying to land work in Hollywood as a Young Romance Heartthrob. At least, that’s been my understanding. But given the amount of instruction I got from him as he took the chair, you’d have thought he was Taylor Lautner. 

“Mom, let’s make sure not to make it too short. Remember I like to keep it spiky on top. And the girls really like when I have these points on the side,” as he touches where I’m supposing sideburns should be.

“Riiiiiiight.” Who is this kid? And who are these girls he’s concerned about impressing?

Shrugging it off, I cut away.

“How long is this going to take?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Do you have someplace to be? It'll take as long as it takes.”

“I’m missing the Bernstein Bears on TV right now. Are we almost done?”

“No, we aren’t. And if you don’t stop wiggling, it’s going to take longer.”

Just a little more here. A little more there.

“OK, done. Nice! Lookin' good, young man.”

BMoC runs to his room, ripping off his prickly, hair-covered shirt and inspects his new style.

“Mooooooooooom! You’ve ruined my hair!”

Angry tears start down his cheeks.

“What are you talking about?’

“My hair is ruined! All the kids are going to laugh at me.”

Umm, what? Hang on. He’s 5. He’s a dude, not a chick. Is he kidding?

“Babe, come on. You look great.”

“No, I don’t. Go away.”

I'm now getting annoyed, fixating on the tantrum rather than the emotionally fragile state of Sampson. But fortunately before I say something to make this bad situation worse, Husband does what every good dad does. He comes to the rescue.

“Buddy. You know what? Your hair does look a little ridiculous, but that’s just because Mom doesn’t know how to fix it like guys do. Here, put some of this stuff in your hair. It makes a spike in the middle. There. Now THAT looks good.”

BMoC now has a faux hawk, red eyes, but the beginnings of a smile.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You got it, buddy.”

So clearly I didn’t realize vanity begins this early in life, and that it affects boys just like it does girls. Next thing you know, they are going to want to pick out their own clothes, dress themselves and actually have a say in their own lives. The nerve. I'm so ill-prepared for parenthood’s curve balls.