Get a Haircut, and Get a Real Job!

One of my sisters is a hairdresser.

Why anyone would choose that profession is beyond me.

Oh don’t get me wrong, I admire the lads and lasses who work wonders for those who are follicularly challenged. I just don’t have the same skills as my sis when it comes to doing do’s. In fact I would be so honest as to admit that my big sister has more talent in her little pinky, than I possess in both hands combined!

Take my daughter, it's a battle to run a brush through her hair, let alone style it into something as simple as pony or piggy tails! Now, part of that’s her, part of that’s me, but even my little girl chose to lose some locks to reduce the time I have my hands in her hair. Wise move.

And here’s a good time to confess to having had an epiphany that I was indeed becoming my mum the day I threatened to whap my daughter on the head with the brush if she didn’t. sit. still!

But I can also thank my maternal gene pool for gifting us with the type of mane that simply will not be managed for any length of time; I’m yet to find an industrial strength hairspray that will hold our hair. (But at least I was consistent in my school photos- pick the kid in the class with the messy tresses and there you go.)

My son, too, has fairly unruly curls, but because he’s a boy he can get away with it looking like he just crawled out of bed. Truth be told, he probably did. (I know, some people pay a fortune for the bed head look, so at least we save money getting it for free!)

As for my Beloved, well his hair is the strangest I’ve ever seen. And I mean that in a nice way. Truly. It’s just a bit too much like a steel wool afro for my liking. Imagine Michael Jackson back in the day (may he RIP), crossed with a Brillo pad, and that’s kinda the hair we’re talking.

But after one too many comments à la “Hey Garfunkel, where’s Simon?” he figured it was time to put his life on the line and his hair in my hands (and all over the towel, the floor, the dog, the kids, down the front of me…) once again.

And so it was through ‘shear’ desperation (pun intended) he sat himself down in front of me last weekend, clippers in hand.

Now, if there’s one thing I insist before I do someone else’s hair, it's this: they have to brush it first. If that happens, there’s less tears all ‘round.

It was fairly obvious that he had not done so when the number 4 comb got stuck in there, and had him physically lifting his butt up off the chair every time I tried to pull it out.

And at this stage of the game with one side of his hair clipped and the other sticking up, he was looking kinda like that guy from Boney M (who puts a part in a ‘fro anyway, I ask you?)!

After much coaxing from me (and more than a little cursing from the man in question) we got the job done- only to watch in amusement and amazement as the local birdlife swooped in to carry off the clippings. I sure wouldn’t choose to use it to feather my nest (seriously, who wants a hairy backside?)

Now, there’s an old wives’ tale that if a bird steals your hair, you’ll go mad. But in my Beloved’s case, I’d say it was the birds that had to watch out- and I’m sure even the backyard cuckoos are a little more so after collecting his curls.

But I’m no birdbrain- I managed to get the clippers down to a number 2, so that despite the fact that he’ll be wearing a beanie to work for a good few nights yet to keep the chill off his newly rediscovered ears, at least none of us need to go through the harassment of hairdressing at home for a long while to come.

And despite my earlier comments about those who do this haircutting stuff for money, I'm thinking there could be something in it for me after all.

Next time my Beloved asks for a trim, I’ll try to remember to set up the video camera before I begin…I hear Funniest Home Videos pays big dollars for the kind of stuff I see for free.

Jx
©2009