The Wife must not mind cutting hair, because she has also cut the Boy's hair ever since he was one of the hairiest babies in the history of the world. He didn't come out of the womb hairy like his older sister, the Girl, did, but once his scalp hit daylight his hair follicles erupted. I believe, if my memory is correct, and according to me it always is, he had 8 haircuts by the time he was a year-and-a half old. That is one hairy baby! At first he didn't like getting his hair cut, but the Wife and the Sister-In-Law figured out that if they kept him occupied by shoving fistfuls of peanuts in his mouth, he would be quiet long enough for them to get the job done. Now, he handles his haircuts much better, but he still insists on snacking on peanuts while it's going on. The whole thing seems somewhat Pavlovian to me. Whatever that means!
Our kids come by their hairiness honestly - they are my kids, after all. I have been likened to a Sasquatch more times than I care to count. I am constantly trimming beard hairs, ear hairs and nose hairs, whether you wanted to know that information or not. And, yes, if I let the gravity-defying hair on my head grow for more than about 3 weeks, it gets tall enough that it looks like I am wearing a soft, fluffy bike helmet everywhere I go. When that happens, I beg the Wife to fit a haircut for me into her busy schedule. Within a week or twelve we can usually can find a 10 minute window that hasn't been grabbed up by one of the kids and their activities.
We probably should have invested in a Flowbee or a Suck-and-Cut at some point, but instead we use one of the old-fashioned trimmers you can buy anywhere. We also probably should have invested in a cape to put around my neck, but instead we just let most of my loosey-goosey hairs fall on to my clothes and the floor. When the haircut is done, I put down my bowl of peanuts and ever-so-slowly get up and walk out of the front door of our house, where I stand on the front steps and shake myself and my shirt as violently as I can, in order to get all the hairs off. This time of year, which happens to be in the middle of the 9 months of winter we have in Minnesota every year, all the cut-off hair I shake free ends up on a snowbank, where it looks as though a small furry animal, like a rabbit or a giant sloth, has been eaten by a ferocious predator, with just a small pile of fur left as evidence. I am tempted to squeeze some ketchup around the pile of hair and then tell my kids that one of the dogs got eaten by a pterodactyl. Knowing them, they would probably look at me for a second and then go right back to punching each other. My humor is lost on toddlers...
|This is an undoctored photo of one of the piles of hair I shook off after my latest haircut. Pretty eerie, huh?|