A Hairy Situation
Today was tagged 'Haircut Day'--as my son, the up and coming hairy son of the hairy husband in the household was at least 2 weeks overdue for a trim. After a typical Saturday morning of making and cleaning up breakfast, getting everyone dressed, and heading out the door we arrived at an overflowing cheap hair salon.
For myself, I insist on the 'finer' salons, or what we--near Chicago Yuppies-- call a spa, because that is my one chance every two months to get away. After at least four foul haircuts when I first arrived in Chicagoland, I gave in to spending over $20 for a haircut (cut me some slack, I grew up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, paying over $20 for a nice meal for two is almost unheard of).
We pull into the parking lot and almost all the chairs in the waiting area are full. We cringe. Waiting over 15 minutes with a 2-year-old can be dangerous. Especially with bottles of product lining the walls right in grabbing distance. Much to my delight the husband says, "Let's go to another one. How 'bout on 83?"
"Yep." I sigh, "Let's just hope that one isn't packed either."
"It's worth a shot."
He turns the car around and we are turning out of the parking lot and a scream erupts from the back seat, "THAT WAY! THAT WAY!"
We turn around and the toddler is pointing back to the salon.
"THAT WAY! HAIRCUT THAT WAY!"
We look at each other and sigh in unison. Without a word the husband turns the car around and shrugs.
The wait wasn't as long as expected. And after listening to some over-bearing father ridicule his teenage son (who looked a whole sixteen years old) that he'd "be back next week! You didn't cut a damn thing off" (even though I am paraphrasing, I don't want you to miss how much of an ass this guy was... really. He went on for almost 7 minutes with a line of other people trying to either check out or in while he made fun of his kid and promised he'd be back at the end of next week for another trim. Why? None of us could figure it out. But he stressed this --pointing to his son's head-- "Is a waste of money.") and near five minutes sitting on a chair with my son climbing on Mountain Mom we were ready to snip.
We sit my son down on the booster and we (the husband and I go together for moral and physical support) debate clipper lengths. We determine a 4 would do well for a summer cut, and hold our breath. Will he cry? Will he squirm? Will he be the kid everyone hates?
Generally, his hair cuts have gone well--little crying but tears well up in his eyes. Routinely as they are trimming up he'd cave and ask for Mom to sit on the chair with him. Today--he was an angel. Clippers humming. Child grinning. Couple tickles on the neck, and a couple hundred spray bottle sprays (the hairdresser let him play with the thing while trimming his bangs) he was done. When he was grinning in the mirror, I smiled and asked, "Who's that?"
Son said, "Super Boy," and grinned as wide toothy smile, "I am a big boy."
You sure are kiddo!
For myself, I insist on the 'finer' salons, or what we--near Chicago Yuppies-- call a spa, because that is my one chance every two months to get away. After at least four foul haircuts when I first arrived in Chicagoland, I gave in to spending over $20 for a haircut (cut me some slack, I grew up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, paying over $20 for a nice meal for two is almost unheard of).
We pull into the parking lot and almost all the chairs in the waiting area are full. We cringe. Waiting over 15 minutes with a 2-year-old can be dangerous. Especially with bottles of product lining the walls right in grabbing distance. Much to my delight the husband says, "Let's go to another one. How 'bout on 83?"
"Yep." I sigh, "Let's just hope that one isn't packed either."
"It's worth a shot."
He turns the car around and we are turning out of the parking lot and a scream erupts from the back seat, "THAT WAY! THAT WAY!"
We turn around and the toddler is pointing back to the salon.
"THAT WAY! HAIRCUT THAT WAY!"
We look at each other and sigh in unison. Without a word the husband turns the car around and shrugs.
The wait wasn't as long as expected. And after listening to some over-bearing father ridicule his teenage son (who looked a whole sixteen years old) that he'd "be back next week! You didn't cut a damn thing off" (even though I am paraphrasing, I don't want you to miss how much of an ass this guy was... really. He went on for almost 7 minutes with a line of other people trying to either check out or in while he made fun of his kid and promised he'd be back at the end of next week for another trim. Why? None of us could figure it out. But he stressed this --pointing to his son's head-- "Is a waste of money.") and near five minutes sitting on a chair with my son climbing on Mountain Mom we were ready to snip.
We sit my son down on the booster and we (the husband and I go together for moral and physical support) debate clipper lengths. We determine a 4 would do well for a summer cut, and hold our breath. Will he cry? Will he squirm? Will he be the kid everyone hates?
Generally, his hair cuts have gone well--little crying but tears well up in his eyes. Routinely as they are trimming up he'd cave and ask for Mom to sit on the chair with him. Today--he was an angel. Clippers humming. Child grinning. Couple tickles on the neck, and a couple hundred spray bottle sprays (the hairdresser let him play with the thing while trimming his bangs) he was done. When he was grinning in the mirror, I smiled and asked, "Who's that?"
Son said, "Super Boy," and grinned as wide toothy smile, "I am a big boy."
You sure are kiddo!
