I’d just walked in the house from outside, where I’d been lying in the hammock with my oldest and youngest. Madly trying to finish ‘The Help’. (So it could release its hold on me.) I found the professor standing at the dining room table. And my second-born sitting in the booster seat at the table. The clippers were lying in front of them.
‘What are you doing?’ I inquired. Though it seemed fairly obvious. ‘I thought I’d cut his hair,’ my husband replied. Which was a strange response given the fact that we hadn’t even talked about the state of the little man’s hair. ‘I’ve already made plans to get their hair cut on Tuesday,’ I told him.
Which, according to my twisted reasoning, should have been all the words he needed to hear before saying ‘shoot, well never mind then, let’s put these clippers away and send this boy outside.’ Except that makes him sound sort of Southern and he doesn’t actually say things like that. Blame it on the book.
But, he didn’t put the clippers away and send the boy outside. Somehow my saying ‘I’ve already made plans to get their hair cut on Tuesday’ (aka three days from now) sounded to him like ‘sure, go ahead, and chop that kid’s hair off!’ Because he made no attempt to cease and desist. The little guy’s shirt was removed, a movie was playing on the laptop and the clippers started buzzing.
Or so I gathered in the peripheral portion of my brain while the thinking portion was trying to absorb the last forty pages of the book.
We may have gotten into a slight argument thirty or forty minutes later when I’d finished the book and surveyed my beloved’s handiwork. From fifteen feet away. Without my glasses on.
I may have (later when the Hen wasn’t in the room) said something like ‘his hair looks horrendous.’ And Mr. Johnson may have said ‘it doesn’t look any worse than before I cut it.’ Which sounds like it was an insult directed towards me. But, actually, the professor himself gave the kid his last haircut. So he was actually insulting his own skillz.
I thought a bath and hairwash might improve things. But it didn’t. Not really. I gave my Thomas pajamas-clad Hen a hug and whispered ‘I’m sorry’ in his ear. Even though he was oblivious to the reason for my apology.
The men all went to Blockbuster to select our Saturday night movies. They returned with Astro Boy and An Education. ‘Someone at Blockbuster said he looked cute,’ the professor told me – triumphantly – when they got back. As if to say ‘see, you just don’t know a good haircut when you see it.’
I imagined my round-faced cherub walking around Blockbuster whilst wearing his brother’s hand-me-down Thomas the Tank Engine jammies. A wannabe six year old, trapped in a two and a half year old’s body. ‘He is cute,’ I established.
Despite the fact that he now looks like a mini-Brad Pitt from Inglorious Basterds.