After a childhood of questionable home haircuts, when I became a Grown Up I discovered the joys of going to a hairdresser. It was relaxing. I could be pampered, read magazines I am too proud to buy and enjoy the head massage way more than can be considered healthy.
Oh how things have changed. Today, I was running late so the pram stayed in the car. Baby had to sit on my knee: the Cruskit was to keep him occupied while Billie the hairdresser did her job. My hands were full of Baby and Cruskit, so the magazines stayed on the counter. I could only see the top of my head in the mirror, above the wide-eyed Boy as he gazed up at the light fixtures and babbled to the face (his own) in the mirror.
Billie the hairdresser started to cut. The cape didn’t cover us, so all the hair fell directly onto my exposed clothing and his once clean clothes. I tried to blow it away, but there was too much. As she proceeded, his head started to resemble a fuzzy ice cream cone; round, fair and soft, with hair sprinkles on top. I turned him around to have a chat and realised he also had wet Cruskit all over his chin, with tiny bits of cut hair stuck to it.
It occurred to me as I paid and left, that I didn’t even look in the mirror to check out my cut. I was undeterred by this. I was ready to face the world again, with a hairy baby, a wet Cruskit and even lower standards. This is what it must feel like to be a man (without the Baby and the Cruskit).