The Haircut

In August, I noted that the shaggy-headed kid living in my house desperately needed a hair cut.

This weekend, I thought. School doesn't start for another week.

Well, that calm, rational thought turned to panic when I realized the next day was freshman orientation, which meant school pictures and ID cards. Shaggy needed a hair cut, stat!

"My hair is FINE," Shaggy Mark argued, flipping his long, messy locks out of his eyes.

"Let's go," I said. I was not going to argue; this was going to happen, whether Shaggy liked it or not.

"But I want Jill to cut it!" Shaggy whined. He likes Jill because she cuts exactly three hairs from his head and says, "See Mom, the guys like their hair long. That's the style!" 

Mark sees that as a compromise--I should be happy he got a hair cut, and he's happy he didn't really get a hair cut. I see it as wasting $25. 

"We can't," I said. I reminded him that Jill works till 5, and it was now 6. The situation called for a real barber shop, which is where we went.

I waited patiently until Mark was called up to the chair. He brushed his long, wild hair forward, covering his eyes, trying desperately (but unsuccessfully) to hide behind his bangs. 

"So what are we doing today?" the barber asked.

I looked at Mark. "Tell him," I said, but Mark sat silently, glaring at me. He wanted no part of this.

"Not too much off the top or back, just clean it up a bit," I said. "Make him look good."

"That I can do!" the barber said, enthusiastically. His enthusiasm should have clued me in, but it didn't.

I sat back, lost in my gossip magazine. I was so absorbed that I forgot to look up until 10 minutes later. Then I casually glanced up, and gasped, clasping a hand to my mouth. "Oooooooh, crap!" I thought. 

Mark sat in the chair, jaw clenched, completely shorn and shooting daggers at me. I could feel his anger from across the room, rolling off him in huge waves. Three pounds of hair lay on the ground below him, and boy, was he mad. 

I'd promised to clean up his hair, not cut it all off, but clearly, the barber didn't hear that!

The barber finished snipping, and handed Mark a mirror. Mark looked over his hair, gave the barber a fake smile and nodded his approval (also fake). But as the barber turned to put the mirror away, Mark glared at me and shook his head. Oh, crap, I thought again.

I smiled nervously as Mark left the chair, touching his super short hair. He wriggled away from me.

"Looks good!" I said lightly, then whispered at him under my breath, "Don't say anything until we leave."

"Looks good, dude!" said the clueless barber. "Just put a little gel in it."

"I don't have any gel," Mark said, flatly, still touching his head in disbelief.

"Do you sell any?" I asked, quickly, trying to save the moment.

The barber handed me a small jar of pomade, and told Mark to just use a tiny bit. "And wash it off before bed, or it'll ruin your pillow case," he warned.

"How much do I owe you?" I asked. I was anxious to get out before Grumpy Mark lost it.

"Twelve bucks for the hair, and ten bucks for the pomade," he said. 

This time I did the double-take--ten dollars for that tiny container of product?!? But one look at angry Mark and I realized now was not the time to argue. 

I thanked him and we quickly left. 

The barber shop door was open toward the parking lot. "Don't say anything until we're in the car," I said. Mark clamped his jaw tight.

"I seriously did not know he was gonna cut it that short!" I apologized, as I started the car. "You heard me, I just told him to clean it up, not cut it all off!"

"HE CUT IT ALL OFF!" Mark boomed, smoothing his head where his mop used to be. "I'm bald!"

"You're not bald," I answered. "And besides, you're old enough to tell the guy how you want it cut! You could've told him not so short!"

"I think you owe me dinner," Mark said. "Take your bald kid out to eat." 

"Fine," I said. I really did feel bad that I'd promised him a minor hair cut, and he'd gotten the exact opposite.

As we sat in the patio of a local burger joint, Mark shuddered. 

"It's cold out here," he noted.

"It's like 80 degrees!" I replied. "It's not cold."

"Not to you," he smirked. "You have hair."

I sighed. I would not live this down for a long time.

Mark awoke early the next day. He said it was to take a shower, but he spent five minutes in the tub and 30 in front of the mirror, gently plying his hair with pomade. When he finally came out, I gasped again, but for a wholly different reason.

My little boy with a shaggy mop had transformed into a handsome young man with perfectly styled hair. He looked like a '50s movie star with his short, stylish hair slicked back. Seriously, it made him look five years older and ten times cuter.

And I wasn't the only one who noticed.

"Everybody loved my hair today," Mark told me proudly after band practice. "The girls all wanted to touch it." 

He ran his fingers through it and smiled, his bright eyes shining behind his long lashes, a dimple forming in his adorable face. 

And suddenly, I felt sick about his hair cut all over again, but for a completely different reason. I no longer worried Mark was mad about his short hair; now I worried the high school girls were all mad for it.

And as Mr. Good Lookin' strutted off to the other room, I sighed. Then smiled. Because seriously, how did a simple hair cut become so transformative, in so many ways?