ninanevermore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ninanevermore) wrote2006-05-24 04:54 pm
ninanevermore) wrote2006-05-24 04:54 pm
Entry tags:
Wednesday - The Haircut
Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about my son's latest haircut, and how I have decided from here on out that he doesn't need haircuts anymore and that he can grow his hair all the way down to his diaper for all that I care. He can be a baby rebel, a long-haired hippie toddler marching to the beat of his own toy drum. I will let him stay this way until he gets tired of being called a girl or he gets over his fear of hairdryers and electric clippers.
This last haircut was traumatic for both of us. He has recovered from it, but I can't say the same for myself.
I take him to a chain of hair salons that specialize in children's hair. For kiddos my son's size, they have a toy car on a pedestal that he can be strapped into, complete with a steering wheel so that he can pretend to drive as fast as he can to get away from the stylist. He gets a little TV monitor and they pop in the DVD (or a video game for the older kids) that is supposed to keep him distracted and amused.
When I called the salon, they were booked for the afternoon but said that they could work us in as a walk-in if we were willing to wait for 45 minutes. I agreed. My son was starting to resemble a skinny blond sheep dog. His first salon haircut had been a little stressful and I had put his second one off as long as I thought I possibly could. Little did I know that I had not yet learned what "stressful" was.
He played with a toy train set that they have in the back of the salon until his name was called. The young woman who would be cutting his hair pointed me toward the tiny yellow Volkswagen convertible that he would be driving, but before I could tell her not to, she picked up a hair dryer to clean off the seat before I sat him down in it. Suddenly, the calm quit little boy in my arms let out a piercing scream. He does not like loud noises. If he had his way, the following objects would be banished from the planet earth: vacuum cleaners, blenders, lawnmowers, garbage disposals, Terror Time Tigger Toys, hairdryers, and those electric clippers they use to make short haircuts look neat and even. Cruel mother that I am, I had brought him to a place where he would have to face not just one, but two of his greatest fears. He did his best to escape from the torment, and valiantly fought off his nemesis. In this case, his nemesis happened to be me.
According to the literature that I have read on child development, fear of loud noises is a normal phase that many children go through when they are my son's age. As they grow, they become aware of things that they cannot control and the world becomes a more frightening place. As time goes by, they will outgrow these irrational fears. Parents just have to be patient until this happens.
Knowing this did not comfort me as I tried to strap 30 pounds of crying, screaming little boy into a miniature yellow convertible and to restrain him while the stylist kept saying, "I can't use the scissors on him unless you can keep his head still."
I did my best by holding him in a series of baby half Nelson holds, all of which he got out of after a few seconds. I told the stylist that whatever they pay her, it's not enough.
We decided to put off using the clippers until last in order to trim the hair over his ears, since he would not keep his head still to enable the stylist to get close enough to the sides of his head with her scissors without her cutting off one of his ears (they can sew them back on, right?) or stabbing his brain.
When it was all over, he really did look better, and he only had a few nicks and scratches on his neck to show for our trouble. As soon as he was out of the Volkswagen and we were walking toward the door, he was happy and calm. I tipped the stylist $10 for a $14 haircut. Just so you all know, I'm usually more of a cheapskate than that. Hairstylists get 10% from me. This one happened to have earned her 71%, and even a tightwad like myself could not deny it.
As calm as my son was, though, his mother needed a drink. Tequila, straight up, with salt and lime. All right, I'm too responsible to drink when he's in my care. I can dream about it, though.
So I have decided no more haircuts for my son. His hair is fine and pale blond, so I think I will tell everyone that I want him to look like Orlando Bloom in Lord of The Rings for Halloween and I have to start growing it now to have it there by October. After that, I will have to come up with another excuse.
Either that, or have a friend drive us to the salon so I can drink how ever much tequila it takes to get us through another trim.
This last haircut was traumatic for both of us. He has recovered from it, but I can't say the same for myself.
I take him to a chain of hair salons that specialize in children's hair. For kiddos my son's size, they have a toy car on a pedestal that he can be strapped into, complete with a steering wheel so that he can pretend to drive as fast as he can to get away from the stylist. He gets a little TV monitor and they pop in the DVD (or a video game for the older kids) that is supposed to keep him distracted and amused.
When I called the salon, they were booked for the afternoon but said that they could work us in as a walk-in if we were willing to wait for 45 minutes. I agreed. My son was starting to resemble a skinny blond sheep dog. His first salon haircut had been a little stressful and I had put his second one off as long as I thought I possibly could. Little did I know that I had not yet learned what "stressful" was.
He played with a toy train set that they have in the back of the salon until his name was called. The young woman who would be cutting his hair pointed me toward the tiny yellow Volkswagen convertible that he would be driving, but before I could tell her not to, she picked up a hair dryer to clean off the seat before I sat him down in it. Suddenly, the calm quit little boy in my arms let out a piercing scream. He does not like loud noises. If he had his way, the following objects would be banished from the planet earth: vacuum cleaners, blenders, lawnmowers, garbage disposals, Terror Time Tigger Toys, hairdryers, and those electric clippers they use to make short haircuts look neat and even. Cruel mother that I am, I had brought him to a place where he would have to face not just one, but two of his greatest fears. He did his best to escape from the torment, and valiantly fought off his nemesis. In this case, his nemesis happened to be me.
According to the literature that I have read on child development, fear of loud noises is a normal phase that many children go through when they are my son's age. As they grow, they become aware of things that they cannot control and the world becomes a more frightening place. As time goes by, they will outgrow these irrational fears. Parents just have to be patient until this happens.
Knowing this did not comfort me as I tried to strap 30 pounds of crying, screaming little boy into a miniature yellow convertible and to restrain him while the stylist kept saying, "I can't use the scissors on him unless you can keep his head still."
I did my best by holding him in a series of baby half Nelson holds, all of which he got out of after a few seconds. I told the stylist that whatever they pay her, it's not enough.
We decided to put off using the clippers until last in order to trim the hair over his ears, since he would not keep his head still to enable the stylist to get close enough to the sides of his head with her scissors without her cutting off one of his ears (they can sew them back on, right?) or stabbing his brain.
When it was all over, he really did look better, and he only had a few nicks and scratches on his neck to show for our trouble. As soon as he was out of the Volkswagen and we were walking toward the door, he was happy and calm. I tipped the stylist $10 for a $14 haircut. Just so you all know, I'm usually more of a cheapskate than that. Hairstylists get 10% from me. This one happened to have earned her 71%, and even a tightwad like myself could not deny it.
As calm as my son was, though, his mother needed a drink. Tequila, straight up, with salt and lime. All right, I'm too responsible to drink when he's in my care. I can dream about it, though.
So I have decided no more haircuts for my son. His hair is fine and pale blond, so I think I will tell everyone that I want him to look like Orlando Bloom in Lord of The Rings for Halloween and I have to start growing it now to have it there by October. After that, I will have to come up with another excuse.
Either that, or have a friend drive us to the salon so I can drink how ever much tequila it takes to get us through another trim.
drink how ever much tequila
Re: drink how ever much tequila
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Mine seems to be thriving in spite of me, though.
the subject of hippie hair
Re: the subject of hippie hair
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Sorry, but that line is priceless! :-0
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;P
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However, since Monday is one of his days off, I schedule doctor appointments for that day. He gets to be the one who has to hold our boy down for immunizations and the like. It balances out, I suppose.
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And yes, good parenting! You deserve your tequila.
On the other hand, if you would have sat back as you pass your child responsibility to the hair dresser and then complained about how she couldn't handle your kid, well, then I would tell you to shove it. :)
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(*raises a shot glass with salt around the rim*) I've always hated those mothers; I make a great effort not to be one of them.
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A good hat could buy you a few years of non-haircut time.
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Oi. That was serious trauma. For you. LOL
Okay, so I have to admit that yours was an amusing story, but I tried to stop giggling long enough to experience your story from a compassionate perspective. ;0D
I LOVE little blonde baby boys with long hair. Sooo cute.
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Long hair will look great on him.
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Well, I say that now. He's 13 -- I'm sure the best is yet to come. ~cough~
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