"Having a bad haircut can be quite traumatic!"
~Rachel Stevens
My son is practically perfect in every way. OK, I may be exaggerating, but he is pretty awesome. One of the things I have always loved about him was his hair. He was born with a full head of super thick, black hair. He never lost it when he was an infant and it has always grown very quickly. At 20 months I think he has had seven or eight hair cuts, and he somehow still ends up looking like a dutch boy before we get him in. I put off these visits because I feel that every time he gets a cut it ages him, and he is growing up too quickly for my liking already.
Yesterday we took him to get another cut. The stylist who normally does his hair wasn't there, but we took the risk and allowed another person to attempt (and I use that word intentionally) it. This mama was already feeling apprehensive about getting those baby locks cut off and the aded unknown put me in the perfect state of worry to make what follows truly a one-of-a-kind scary mama experience.
This girl, she was young, sat him in the chair and started to cut almost before the cape could be snapped around his neck. I stopped her, pointed out his triple crown and the cowlick at the front and told her what I wanted. I explained that we don't use the clippers on him, but the scissors. I told her that I wanted the same cut he had, just shorter. I wanted it cleaned up around his ears and out of his eyes. She looked at me like I was just another crazy helicopter mom and I am sure she might have inserted a mental eye roll as well. Without inspecting his hair for herself or taking a minute to look at him and figure out a plan of attack, she picked up a chunk of hair and whacked it off.
I was stunned. A good four inches of hair fell to the floor. That part is always kept long because if it isn't, it won't lay down. That triple crown I had just carefully pointed out to her and was worried about was now just over an inch long and sticking straight up into the air. It was like three signs, all pointing in different directions on the back of his head. I wanted to yank him out of the chair right then, but kept my cool. She chopped more hair off, in a manner that could only be described as haphazard. After watching this for a minute or two, I stopped her. I looked to my husband with worried, pleading eyes, wanting him to make it right, or to maybe say something to stop the butchering that was going on. "Should we just use the clippers on it?" I asked, seeing no help for it at this point. Of course, being a guy, and not that observant, he wasn't as concerned with it as I was. The stylist asked why I said that and I pointed out the hair fence at the back of his head. She smiled and said, "Oh, I can take care of that!" Before I could stop her, she snipped off what remained of that section of hair. She scalped my son.
I choked on the words I was holding back. I did all my calming exercises I could think of and smiled what had to be the most forced smile of all time. I pictured myself running out the door, the zoo animal cape still around my son flapping as we ran, and not looking back. I looked to my husband, who was beginning to get nervous as well. I began to closely inspect every snip she made from that point and I'm sure my supervision wasn't making her any better of a stylist. After a few more cuts, none of which were making any sense to me and didn't do anything to fix what had been done, she looked at me and asked, "Ok, is that good?"
I really thought she was kidding. I didn't appreciate her humor, but I could have forgiven the untimely joke, had it but been a joke. She was serious. She legitimately thought she had delivered a hair cut. That cowlick at my son's forehead was also chopped off quite short but the hair on the other side was actually still hanging down into his eyes. I pointed this out to her and she acted like she hadn't even noticed it. Her idea of fixing this issue was to cut it straight across his forehead, giving him guy bangs, like Lloyd Christmas - but only on 1/2 of his face - the other half was scalped and standing up due to her cowlick treatment. At this point, I was in serious danger of exploding. I could feel my face burning and steam was leaking out of my ears. With shaking hands, I took the cape off of him and began to look for escape. I am eternally grateful my husband was there to pick up the pieces and take charge. He told me to leave, and he would meet us at the coffee aisle. (Yes, we get our son's hair cut at Walmart)
Happy to get out of that emotional torture chamber of a salon, my feet moved, but my brain was in a fog. As I walked and inspected his hair, the relief I had felt at escaping that place was replaced with anger piled on top of more anger. The damage was even worse than I had previously thought. He had large chunks of hair sticking out over his ears and a most uneven and botched hair line. One side of his neck was short, the other long and the two opposites were joined by a little rat tail. You could see every cut she had made like individual petals on a flower. My beautiful baby boy was ruined. As I was wondering aimlessly, not even able to comprehend where I was in relation to the coffee aisle I was supposed to be going to, I actually cried. I'm sure people thought I was a crazy lady.
I met up with Cam, who had run into Henry's Uncle Josh and Aunt Haley. I was glad to have someone else witness the atrocity and to commiserate with. They did their best to assure me that my son was still cute. It was nice of them, but of course my son was still cute. He is stinking adorable - but he had been ruined. After collectively deciding he needed to have it fixed, I sent Cam and Josh back to the salon. I simply couldn't go back in there. I had done everything to remain calm and christian and I had thus far managed to even be civil, but I would not be held responsible for my actions from this point out. Haley and I talked for a bit and went through the checkout line. Thinking we had wasted enough time, we went to the salon. We should have killed more time. They were still standing in line.
Our turn came, and despite not wanting any part of this, I couldn't not go back to the chair with my son. I felt like I was sending him back to be slaughtered, and I had to protect him. Luckily for the first stylist, she saw me coming and disappeared into the back room, not showing her face the rest of the time we were in the store. (Also, never apologizing or doing anything to make it right) This second lady was a bit older and she talked to Henry, interacted with him and helped him to get his hair cut instead of just giving him a hair cut. She used the clippers, and I was surprised at the amount of hair there still was to cut off. My mama heart broke with every pass she made. My baby was transformed into a little boy in the space of a few minutes. I am incredibly appreciative of the wonderful lady who managed to save my son's hair after that horrible experience. She did a great job despite the previous mistakes made. One thing she was not able to do was to fix that cowlick problem. No matter what, unless I keep his hair cut into this big boy cut (which I am emotionally not ready for) we are going to go through a big awkward phase.
Who knew a simple thing like a hair cut would have such implications or leave such a bitter, damaging experience in my mind? I have to thank all the wonderful stylists out there. Thank you for doing your job correctly. Thank you for understanding that it is about more than just a hair cut. Thank you for humoring mamas who aren't ready to trade in their babies for big kids. You really do make a difference in the sanity of mothers everywhere.
