The Haircut
Copyright 2021 by Heather Rose Brown

This is a vignette of what might have happened if one of my early childhood battles over getting a summer haircut had gone a little differently.

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The warmth on my back faded when my mom's shadow blocked the late morning sunlight shining through the kitchen window. I cringed at the familiar snick of a plastic guard sliding into place on a hair clipper. My neck prickled when the dreaded buzzing started behind my right ear.

"Relax," Mom said as she patted my shoulder.

"Sorry," I said while trying to not whimper.

There was a hint of worry in my mom's voice when she asked, "Are you crying?"

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, then wiped my cheek with the fluffy bath towel that covered me from neck to knees.

The buzzing stopped. A moment later, something was placed on the wooden table beside me with a heavy clack. Mom's voice came around the other side of me as she asked, "Why are you getting so upset over a haircut?"

I caught a faint whiff of something clean and flowery when I took a deep breath. I held that breath while waiting for my emotions to settle, then sighed and opened my eyes.

Mom was crouched in front of me. She dabbed at my other cheek with the edge of the towel. "What's wrong, honey?" she asked as her forehead wrinkled with confusion.

I rested my hand back in my lap and said, "I just ... I don't like gettin' it cut."

My mom was quiet for what felt like forever. Eventually, she leaned closer and asked, "Do you really want to be the only boy in the neighborhood without a nice, cool haircut this summer?"

I glared through the hair hanging over my eyes as I said, "I ain't a ..." Past arguments that had started with those words tumbled through my memory before I could finish my sentence. After a few moments, a new thought popped into my head. "Not all boys get their hair cut."

Mom frowned and rubbed her chin for a couple of seconds, then asked, "Are you sure you want your neck to be all sweaty from your hair hanging down on it?"

I chewed on my bottom lip as I thought, then said, "I could ... maybe ... I dunno."

She lifted the part of the towel covering my legs, reached for my hand, then gave it a soft squeeze as she asked, "What were you about to say?"

"I was thinkin' maybe I could ... wear a ponytail?"

"Hrmm," she said as she let go of my hand. "I suppose that could help," she added as she reached over my shoulder. There was a gentle tug at the back of my head as she ran her fingers through my hair. "It'd still be hanging down on your neck, though."

"Not if it's up high."

"You mean ... like a girl's ponytail?" she asked as her brows rose.

"Why can't boys, or anybody else, wear their hair like that?"

"Because ..." Mom's mouth hung open for a second, then snapped shut. She stared at me for what felt like even longer than forever, then said, "I'll still need to give you a trim. Can't have you running around with a shaggy mop all summer."

The anger, frustration, and sadness I'd been trying to shove down all morning started bubbling up again. "Please," I whispered around the lump in my throat, "no more haircuts."

My mom shook her head as she said, "I didn't say a haircut. I said a trim."

I blinked a few times, then asked, "How's a trim different?"

"A trim just snips off the ends of your hair, so it's all nice and even."

"And ... pretty?" I asked in a quiet voice. My heart started thumping in my chest when Mom stared at me again.

"Is that what you really want?" she asked.

I gulped, then nodded.

"Okay pumpkin," she said as she stroked the back of my head.

"Can I wear a scrunchie?"

My mom tilted her head, then smiled and said, "I don't see why not."

Feeling braver than I'd ever felt before, I asked, "Can I wear makeup?"

Mom frowned again, but there was a twinkle in her eyes as she said, "You're not quite old enough for makeup, but ... let's see how you feel about your hair after a few days. If you're still okay with it by then, we can talk about where you want to go from there."