So I am pretty bald. But I wasn’t born that way. Wait, maybe I was. But then my hair grew. And grew. And grew until I had a beautiful curly afro ballooning from my cranium for the majority of my adolescence. You see, I was part of what could only be described as the “burners” growing up and to be part of this select group, longer hair was not only welcomed but appreciated. We would travel, from basement to garage, both male and female,finding joy in the watching of lava lamps or reciting of Simpsons episodes. Yep, we were pretty pathetic.
But that scene became tired man, but I decided to maintain the shaggy locks even if I started noticing a few curls huddled on my white pillow every morning. Excess I thought, running my fingers through my mangled mane, no worries, high fives. Slowly but surely, through my early to mid twenties, a helicopter landing pad started forming on the top of my skull. What was once dappled in beautiful curls had thinned to pink skin, leaving me at the beginning of my Larry from the Three Stooges phase.
Then she came along. My wonderful hip and stylish wife. And through tact and poise, she convinced me to go tell the barber to take the fading coif and reduce it to a number one blade on the clippers and see how shapely my head actually was. Turns out the noggin was not bad, not too eggy or round, and since that day almost 15 years ago, I have kept the lid at number one or zero, keeping things tight and so so easy.
Now my father always told me that I had my uncle’s hair and he accurately predicted I would lose my hair at an early age, just as my uncle did, and he was totally right. At this point I do not miss my hair, I have no Samson complex, and besides after 15 somewhat successful years with Steph, I am not looking to use my hair as an female attractant. That I leave to my electric dance moves.
My wife also has a beautiful crop of hair. Long, brown and luxurious, she is the envied woman who complains her hair is still wet from the morning shower because it so thick and takes forever to dry. Thankfully, it seems both our boys are blessed with the same thick hair as their mothers. And just recently, they have decided to let their respective hair grow.
This is one of those pick your battle moments. I do not love their long hair and actually think it makes both of them look somewhat feminine. But, Hudson especially loves it and does not want to cut it at all. Tasman, during a recent basketball play date, started complaining his hair was getting in his eyes and seemed to be leaning towards getting it snipped. Of course one mention by Hudson of the love of the hippiesque do takes Tasman back to the
don’tyoucomenearmewithscissors attitude, shaking his head like the lead singer of Ratt and running away.
My mother is coming to stay before the upcoming 5km and she and my stepfather will be ruthless about the long hair. All in good fun of course, but their remarks will be significantly more pointed than mine. Steph, she loves it, so I am alone in my parental disdain.
What about you? Are you militant in your child’s hair cutting rigmarole or do you let the locks run free?