Saturday, January 30, 2010

Hair Emergency

Super Cut

"Good luck. It'll be fine.  Don't worry,"  I tell the eldest.  He needs calming down.  He's moments from entering a hellish place he's never been to before -- yet another untested hair salon.  "Dan recommended it."  "Uh-oh," I say.  His oldest friend since pre-school, Dan has the kind of hair that can withstand any disaster.  It's curly and thick and looks decent, no matter how badly someone scissors it. When they were 10, Dan let Cooper cut his hair in the backyard (for fun), as Billy and the rest of their roller hockey team cheered them on.  Dan's fearless, that way.  Other ways, too.  But Billy, sadly, inherited my hair, once eloquently described by a former stylist (there have been so many) as "baby fine, thin, ka-ka hair."

On top of which, Billy has a baaaad history in hair salons when I'm not there to ward off catastrophy.  I use fancy terms like "just a trim" and "a little off the top and sides."  When he uses these same terms, something gets lost in translation.  It comes out differently:  "Butcher my hair, please.  Make me look freakish."  In Copenhagen, where he just spent six months, "I'd like a trim," spoken first in English, then converted into Danish by the designated stylist, came out, "Chop, chop, chop.  Chop it all off." 

In any language, "Walk-ins Welcome" is still my son's favorite mantra.  In Santa Cruz, the sign in the window reads, "Walk-ins Cool."  Seriously, why make an appointment?  He's 22.  Spontaneity is his thing.  So in he goes, a brave walk-in, looking for a hair cut that won't make little children run away in terror.  Seconds before the ceremonial carving begins, I make a suggestion.  "Why don't you go back to that other place downtown?" Stupid idea.  He actually liked it there.  "I tried, but I need an appointment.  %*!@ that!"  Alrighty then.  "Call me when it's over.  Don't forget to say -- " "Trim.  I got it." 

Half an hour later, the phone rings.  On the other end, I hear static. "Billy?  You there?"  "Yeah."  "What happened?"  "I look like an idiot."  "Oh, honey, I'm sure it's not that bad."  "It's really short."  "Did you use the T word?"  "He trimmed it till there was nothing left." "It'll grow back."  "I don't like guys cutting my hair."  "So maybe you won't go back there again."  "At least Dan apologized."  "What for?"  "He came in and made fun of me the whole time I was getting my hair cut."  "How helpful."  "I'm never letting anybody else cut my hair but Renee."  Renee is my hairdresser, president and CEO of my personal beauty team.  "Just remember, sweetie, this is the family curse.  I'll never forget the time Grandma Glo came back from the beauty salon, with fried coconut hair."  That made him laugh.  He knew if his grandmother could survive fried coconut hair, he could get through this latest hair emergency, and the next, and the one after that.  He's fearless, that way.  Other ways, too.

1 comment:

  1. You know what Carol, I beleive deep in heart they honestly only know one cut, I have been in the salon on 3 occassions with 3 different ppictures of cuts in a magazine..and when I get home, wash my hair..woola..its the same Craziness..