After several weeks of contemplation, my 16-year-old decided to “cheat” on his hairdresser. He was close to his hairdresser as she had probably been cutting his hair now for 4 years. It wasn’t some 5-star spa or anything, it was Great Clips but when we called in to get her schedule, she never failed us. Hell, when she admitted to her addiction to lemon-lime Gatorade, who went to Sams Club and bought her a 24-pack? We did.
So to say I was a little disappointed in my son’s fidelity to his hairdresser, was an understatement. I liked Amy. She was bubbly and always so happy to see my son. But alas, trends win and Amy wasn’t cutting it (no pun intended; for real) in the semi-mullet fad.
My son asked that I make an appointment with a barber that had done several of his friend’s hair. It was called Five Thumbz Up. Of course not “thumbs” but “thumbz” with a “z”. Whatever. Despite booking online and offering a credit card, it was cash only but not wanting to disappoint, I took $40 out and hoped for the best.
There was no address, like a fucking speakeasy. I was prepared to walk through the back door of a pawn shop to get to this barber. On the day of the haircut, my son sent me the address of what I was certain was a residential address. I soon realized it was the address of a 1970’s office building. The kind where “mad men” drank old fashions while closing Pall Mall deals.
His appointment was at 7:30 and we arrived at 7:15. At 7:40 he text me that his “barber” was late as he was getting out of barber school.
‘Wait,’ I thought. ‘Is that even legal?’
Not wanting to be the Debbie downer, I played it cool and nodded forward like a brainwashed prisoner.
After The Hair Cut
After waiting what for what felt like an eternity, I saw my son ‘s silhouette come into focus via the rearview mirror. He opened up the car door and got inside.
I can only be honest now in describing what was before me. I honestly had no words for what was before me. It wasn’t on the level of crying, but it sure was shit on the level of sighing.
“Hmmph,” was all I could muster, with a faint grin.
He smiled at me, that innocent, sweet little smile that your youngest can smile. No one else can duplicate it.
“So do you like it?” I asked.
He flipped the visor mirror down, plopped open the mirror and admired himself for a few seconds, turning his face to one side and then the other.
“Well, it will grow out in a few weeks,” he said.
‘Ah ha!’ I thought. He hates it! It gave me hope.
Here is my best description for you. It’s as if an Amish person went on a 48-hour drug bender and at the 45th hour, was asked to give someone a bowl cut. Only that “someone” was my son. He had a jacked up bowl cut if we’re all being real.
Do I like his cut? Fuck no. Am I happy if he’s happy? Yes, unfortunately. Look, I’m not looking for my sons to get haircuts that are on par with Latter Day Saints Missionaries. At the same time, I don’t want their cuts to look like they came from the School of Blind Barbers FFS.
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