I am not a trained barber. I am not a hairdresser. I am not a cowboy. If I was to define myself using these titles, I would be a phony. The ripe definition to the word “phony” is spewed throughout “Catcher in the Rye.” The world is full of phonies, and I exert deliberate intent to not feed into the phony machine. By not feeding into this machine and in order to save money, I did something I will never do again.
I buzzed the Terrific Toddler’s beautiful blonde hair. The particular Friday night had been chosen due to the simple nature that he needed a haircut. There was no plan to buzz his hair, it was a gradual decision we had to make as we saw the different lengths becoming more uneven every time the clippers touched his golden locks. My husband and I cutting our son’s hair was similar to a blind man mowing a lawn. The only difference being that the lawn we were cutting fought like a bucking bronco, cried large crocodile tears, and slung considerable snot. The blonde grass coated an entire dining room table along with the floor. It took almost two hours to clean up his hair clippings on this evening. I am pretty sure we will still find strands of his hair at his high school graduation party.
If hog tying a child would not be considered as child abuse, I think we may have at the very least considered the option. As a parenting guideline and a general rule towards most humans, I try not to break spirits. I want to nurture my little boy into becoming a strong, confident, and kind man. The aftermath of our home haircut caused tears in both my eyes and soul. I looked at the semi buzzed cut little boy, he had sprouts sticking out on the back of his head. The haircut looked similar to a quickly shaven prisoner of war.
I spoke confidently “You look great!” He did what all men do after their hair is clipped. He ran tiny toddler fingers through the newness repeatedly, he felt the softness.
We gave him a cookie to calm the hair cut trauma. One hand held a cookie, the other hand kept feeling the soft short brand new haircut. My voice kept feeding his self esteem, but I was a phony. My husband and I gave him a good long bath to wash away all the baby hair which had taken almost two years to grow, then he went to bed. I walked downstairs to find my husband still sweeping. There I swore upon all the Saints and my God, “I will never do that again.”
I will never cut his hair again. I will never buzz his blonde locks again. I will never ask my husband to grab his hands in order to try to get the uneven sprouts. His hair can be long and people will ask if he is a girl, I don’t care. Some things can never be listed on holiday guides or Favorite Things List. Some things that cost money are well worth the investment. The $20 I would have paid a hairdresser/barber would have saved a torturous evening. There may have been a good looking even buzz cut or no buzz cut at all had I trusted a professional. I wouldn’t have had to pretend to be a phony.
Six days prior to the home haircut, we visited the mall. My instinct kept saying we should let an actual hair stylist cut his hair. The bravado inside of me built up a lie. “I can do it. It can’t be that hard. I cut my husband’s hair all the time.” My husband doesn’t scream and throw fists is the difference. He likes his hair buzzed. A little toddler did not like his hair buzzed. A little boy had a phony barber cut his hair.