It’s only hair, right?
Yesterday, in an act of independence, my 14 year old son went with two friends to SuperCuts for a trim of his golden locks. The boy has been blessed with beautiful, fine, straight hair. I marvel that he is my biological son, and yet I have coarse, thick, curly (with gel, frizzy without) dark hair. He has hair that on a girl would be Marcia Brady Hair (the hair I so coveted in my own teens). Today, or more accurately, yesterday, it would have been known as Justin Bieber hair.
He knew he was in trouble when his “stylist” grabbed clippers. Clippers for a trim?
“I just want a trim,” he reminded her.
“I know,” she said.
And then the buzz. Up that back of his nearly shoulder-length hair and his neck.
He panicked. Is she giving me one of those step-cut bowl cuts?
He sat in silent horror as she shaped a 1980s Joey Lawrence as a toddler mushroom cut.
So, he said, you’ve gotta go shorter up top (meaning, blend it so it’s not a bi-level haircut). She didn’t understand, and further mangled his diminishing locks.
Finally, knowing it was beyond repair, he told her to buzz it. Number 2, setting. All over.
Now, let me be clear: if he had wanted a buzz cut, I would not be blogging about this. We would all (except for a number of freshman girls, I imagine) be fine with it. But he didn’t want it. He wanted a frickin’ trim, stupid lady!
I could tell he was biting back some tears as he explained it to us. His two buddies (who got a bit luckier in the StupidCuts lottery) were kind and supportive.
My oldest son was furious about it (he shares my hair-itage). He went on a verbal rant.
I almost cried (I would have but too many people around, you know?) because it brought back so many horrible memories of my own bad haircuts. Let’s just say, Brunette Little Orphan Annie, and leave it at that, okay?
My husband, formerly of the long flowing locks crowd, and the genetic source for our son’s tresses, knew the indignity. “I’m going up there,” he said, grabbing his keys.
Well, the woman was “on break” when my hubby arrived demanding to know who cut the boy’s hair. He brought a school photo of my son to show them the pre-buzz splendor of the boys’ mane. They told him she’d be back in 10 minutes.
When he returned 15 minutes later, she was still conveniently not available. The manager, who I can only describe as a stubborn, prideful fool, defended the coif. “She ended up giving him three different haircuts,” she whined defensively, never offering so much as an “I’m sorry there was a misunderstanding,” much less showing any regret. She had obviously spoken with the stylist and prepared her lame rationale.
My husband, who lives and breathes graciousness and mercy in the best form of “the customer’s always right,” was incensed. He gave them what-for and verbally shook the dust off his sandals upon leaving.
How hard is it to say, “Sorry. We screwed up.” ? To offer the $16 back? Or offer a free cut (this would cost them nothing, since nary a strand of McHair will every pass through their wash basin again!). He knew she wasn’t to blame. What does an apology, offered on behalf of someone who’s hiding in the back, take away from the apologizer? NOTHING! And it goes so far in making the receiver feel a little better. Infuriating!
A few hours later, we all had a fine time verbally bashing this woman as we sat around the dinner table. And then my sweet, wonderful, kookie husband decided to show solidarity. He left the room for a few minutes and came back clean shaven.
I have known this man 25 years. Never seen his upper lip. And usually, not his chinny-chin-chin either.
All hilarity ensued, as my 18-year old was the first to notice. “What is happening to my family?” he exclaimed in mock horror, dramatically falling to his knees and burying his face in the couch.
“I can’t look at you!” exclaimed the newly bald one.
“I can’t stop looking at your upper lip!” I said, laughing.
“Maybe I’ll shave my legs,” said the 18-year-old.
“I’m getting a Brazilian tomorrow,” I said.
This stopped the laughter immediately.
“Too far, Mom,” someone yelled.
“Brazilian Blowout?” my husband offered.
I shrugged and we kept laughing, and settled in to an after dinner movie.
It’s only hair, right?
McMusings 