Big Boy Haircut

Well, Jack doesn't have a very thick head of hair and what he does have is kind of thin and wispy. Blessed will he be, methinks, with his maternal grandfather's premature glabrousness.

Anyway, thin though his mane be, bits of it were getting long and stringy, and for some reason it was coming in thick and long at the bottom of the back of his head. This gave him the unseemly appearance of nurturing a thick, velvety mullet. So just after his first birthday it was off to an old-fashioned barbershop for his very first big boy haircut.

Jack awaits his first tonsorial experience.


Both Jack and Mommy found the experience stressful. Pay no mind to the female barber's "alakazam!"-style hand motions here. One half expected her to produce a three of clubs at any moment and exclaim, "Is THIS your card?"

Don't tell her I said so but I think mommy squirted a few tears here.
The owner, a typically rosy-cheeked, bewhiskered old gent, sat behind a desk reading, I don't know, Facial Hair Monthly or whatever it is barbers read when they're sitting at desks. I had rather hoped that such an old-fashioned barber, in an old-fashioned barbershop, would have ministered to Jack on this fateful day, leaning over him, reeking of Old Spice and other peoples' hair, but alas it was not to be. Instead we got Belmont Shore's barbershop version of Doug Henning. C'est la vie.

Jack got sick of it pretty quick.

You can notice two things here: a) how fine Jack's hair was and b) how little there was of it. This will be important when I c) receive the bill below.

Jack was pretty pleased at how good he looked afterwards! Note chubby, bewhiskered barber in background.

As we plucked Jack from the chair after perhaps five minutes' worth of snipping and the removal of perhaps two grams of baby hair, the barber went off to the back of the shop and produced a tattered Xerox document comemmorating "Baby's First Haircut," complete with official seal of approval from some mythical governing body. A touching gesture, to be sure. I asked how much we owed and had to cock an ear again when she replied, "$18 dollars." Well. Highway robbery, what? I could see a token ten bucks -- if it were me, I'd be inclined to spring a freebie, after a look at Daddy's dissheveled rat's nest, in the hope of drumming up some paternal business -- but $18 dollars seemed, by my count, to come out to something like 50 cents a hair.

I eyed her shears -- they were within arms' reach and I could have made a clean getaway -- but I had Jack and Genevieve to worry about. Reluctantly I pried $18 from my wallet along with a meagre tip, and we headed off for errands, and for home.

When we got home Jack celebrated his new haircut by standing up and stuffing a sock in his mouth. And who among you wouldn't do the same?