Scalped

I have wronged my boy.

My fair-haired firstborn was sheared by RedHead Scissorhands at the Great Clips "salon." I put it in quotes because it turned out to be more like a butcher shop. And I led precious Beckham's hair to the slaughter...

It all started with Gigi and hair clips. Beckham's manly mane, which received its first cut some time ago, had grown a tad long. Eye poking in front; mullet in back. He needed a tiny trim. Tiny. Not too much, just a little bit. I had planned on doing it soon, but the matter became urgent when my mom ("Gigi") sent Beckham home to his father wearing tiny hair clips. She only meant to keep the hair out of his eyes, but sometimes even the most well-intentioned deed can lead down the path to destruction. I'll save the gory details and sum it up this way: Ryan doesn't like little boys in barrettes.

I briefly thought about cutting it myself, but quickly dismissed the idea. I drink, on average, fourteen cups of coffee a day -- I'm not the lady you want wielding scissors at a squirmy toddler. I told myself that it wasn't a big deal; anyone could cut a straight line. No need to drive out to Mom's hairdresser, who had performed the first cut. I popped into Great Clips with Great Expectations; I left with the same devastation in which dear Pip left Miss Havisham's.

I should have seen it coming. The place was all white and clinical. Signs in the storefront windows boasted expediency, not fashionable styling. Still, once inside, I didn't want to appear rude. I kept saying to myself: how bad could it be?

Then I saw how bad. A "stylist" approached me, and I kid you not, she had hair like a character from a Dr. Seuss book. This is when most normal, with-it, discerning mothers would have run screaming from the shop. Not I. Instead, I followed like a dumb sheep and sat in the chair she told me to. She asked what we wanted. I said just a trim. I opened my mouth to expound on my definition of "trim" -- but it was too late. The samurai scissors had already begun. Beckham's fragile little tresses cascaded to the floor. I fought an urge to drop to my knees and gather up every last strand. (Can you super glue hair back? Didn't think so.) I was rendered speechless. I paid the lady, went outside, and strapped him into the carseat. I was driving away before I realized that I had forgotten both of our coats. I went back in to get them, resisting the urge to girl-fight Seuss woman using the nearest curling iron. Instead, I collected his jacket (thankful it had a hood), drove home and whined to Ryan about it for approximately 6 1/2 hours.

I know, I know, it's just hair. But there's more to it than that, somehow. It's like the Samson and Delilah story, only I'm the one whose strength was totally sapped from my body. I'm sure a lot of it has to do with how old it makes him look. Still, though, I think I could handle him looking older if he wasn't a miniature version of Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. At least B has no idea. He just keeps on grinning, with no clue about the travesty that has taken place atop his head. Our Christmas cards will have to be photoshopped ... perhaps I'll cut and paste an 80s hair band coif on top of his smiling face. Or a "Mississippi mudflap" style mullet. The possibilities are endless...

I haven't yet brought myself to record this for posterity, but when I finally snap a pic of it, I'll be sure to post it.