Monday, October 10th, 2011
We decided it was time. It wasn’t so much that the pronoun “she” was used one too many times—though it was—but poor Roy was having a hard time seeing. For a while, his hair tucked neatly behind his ears, but not so anymore. You could try, but it would stubbornly spring back to its preferred position, hanging straight down the middle of his forehead. Finally, we gave in to the unavoidable no-fail solution: A haircut.
We took him to a barber. A real, honest-to-goodness barber, the kind with a red, white and blue pole outside, muscle car magazines littering the waiting area, and westerns playing on the giant old TV in the corner. We found this gem, Nate’s, in the small town where Papa and Grandma live. The pro wielding the scissors was not named Nate and seemed a little, well, young for the ambiance, but when I heard him tell the white-haired gentleman occupying the chair as we waited that, “Nowadays, you see guys more dressed up walking into the bar than walking into church,” my worries about his qualifications faded. With lines like that rolling off his tongue, clearly the guy had been at this awhile.
When it was Roy’s turn, Barber Scott whipped out a wooden board, on hand to set on top of the chair’s arms for just such an occasion. Little guy wasn’t too fond of the giant blue cape and immediately asked to see his shoes, to ensure they still existed under there, I suppose. Clint kept him stocked in crackers, while Grandma Nancy and I took photos paparazzi-style. In the end there were zero tears, as well as minimal whining and lots and lots of fine blonde hair shed.
For a day or so, I kept forgetting about the cut, so his short hair was a surprise every time I saw him. Who was this child in front of me in my little baby’s clothes? Time to face facts. It’s my big boy. Luckily, he’s just as snuggleable as the long-haired baby version I’d grown accustomed to.Add a Comment