Beauty School Drop-out?

Maybe it's a higher calling? Maybe it's a hidden talent about which I am not entirely on-board? Somehow against my better judgement and amidst great protest, I have become the family hairstylist. (I really feel like I must have written this in an earlier entry but I can't seem to find it.)

When my dad was alive, he'd often come over to my apartment and ask if I had time to give him a haircut. Not entirely sure why he needed me to do it. All it took was my shaving his head with an electric razor. I was confident he could have done it himself. In fact for a long time he did go to the barber but when his barber retired, he accosted me.

In the early stages of this request, it really annoyed me to have to cut his hair. Can't recall why it annoyed me so since it took maybe 10 minutes of my time probably 4 times a year. Perhaps I was still having a teen angst moment in my early 30s. Over the years I grew to enjoy this little tradition because my dad would make comments that I thought were very cute. As I shaved his head, he would say that he was getting sheared like a sheep. Occasionally he would even bleat as though trying to avoid the yearly (although for him it was a quarterly) woolen collection. As his hair grew greyer and it tumbled off his shoulders, it really did look like wool tufts. He'd even say something like "If you collect it, you can knit a nice sweater!" Then he would make a silly grin that would make me want to hug him. But in my family, we didn't openly show our love or appreciation so I never hugged my dad.

Seeing how good of a job I was doing for my dad, my mom, being the epitome of cheapskate, asked if I would cut her hair. My dad used to do it for years but I guess she thought a woman would do a better job since my dad often left her hair lopsided. This tradition is not one I enjoy -- not even with the passing of time. My mom expects me to give her a wonderful hairstyle the likes of Vidal Sassoon. She seems to forget that my salon training came from the school of Super Babboon. Her thinking is that if I go to the salon and watch my hairstylist do his magic on my hair, I should be able to copy it. I have never been able to convince her that this is incredibly faulty logic.

On top of all of that my mom won't be quiet while I cut her hair. If she would just go to a real salon, she could have someone whose job it is to pretend to listen assist her. I don't really want to hear what she has to say because I've already heard it all a million times (and seriously, I'm not exaggerating with the million. My mom is more than a broken record. She a broken orchestra). Then she moves her head all over the place. She can't seem to understand that I need her to be still. When I end up snipping her ear because she moves last minute, she doesn't see that it's partly her fault. 'Pay Attention!' she gripes. To which I reply "Follow Directions!"

No matter what happens or which technique I use, my mom comes to me after washing her hair to point out that I've missed a spot or it's uneven. To which I respond, "Mom, if you wanted perfection, you could go to the salon. Considering that they are actually trained to cut hair. You come to me and I'm trained to read and interpret books and speak foreign languages"

Being the penny pincher that she is, she often approaches me to cut and color my sister's hair. I have refused this for a number of reasons. #1) I am not trained to cut hair or color it! #2) I think my sister could use a nice hairstyle which I am not qualified to give her #3) My sister could use some deep conditioning treatment to control that nest on her head that is often sprouting goslings.

Despite all of my protests, I have often had to cut my sister's unruly hair. I always apologize upfront that it won't look as good as a real hairstylist's work. My sister doesn't go because she doesn't want to have to explain the unnecessary forking over of dollar bills to my mom when I could easily do it for free. So because of my frugal family, I have to fuss around with a second job that I was elected to do.

The First Cut

My daughter was born with an immense arrangement of hair on the top of her head. I had to give her the first trim after 3 months and I have been doing the best with upkeep every few weeks. However, in the last few weeks, it has been very difficult getting a comb or brush through her hair without it snagging on the bristles. And the other night when she was dancing and couldn’t quite see out of one side of her face because her hair had covered it, I thought it was time for her first hair cut.

I worried a bit that she might freak out. Not so much because of a scissor being presented but by it being presented to her in someone else’s hands. I placed her in the little fire truck and the hair dresser put on an episode of Doc MacStuffins and M was mesmerized. The cape went on and the spray bottle came out. She was interested by the water shooting out of the nozzle and tried to grab it. But when the theme song started, she was interested only in what was on the screen in front of her. 

The stylist combed through her hair and then put it up in clips to cut the back portion. My daughter looked adorable. In what seems like a few short minutes, a good inch and a half was cut away from her mane and her bangs no longer fell into her eyes. She cleaned up very well. 

Then I had to pay. Luckily my sister joined me on this momentous first so she got to run after her while I settled the bill and gave the nice lady a tip. My daughter determined that the best part of the hair cut was the chance to run back and forth in an immense play area. She gave me a hard time leaving the place. Luckily she didn’t put up a fight with getting her first official trim. The hard part was getting her to leave the place. Can’t say I blame her. I wish my salon would show any television show I wanted.