First Haircut

By Tina Smith

Cutting Baby's hair is just a shade easier than bathing a tomcat.

~Stan and Jan Berenstain, The Berenstains' Baby Book

It started out one cold morning after our son's first birthday. I had decided that it was time for Isaac to get his hair cut for the first time. Although we found his long locks cute, we had gotten a few polite comments from family members that alerted us to the fact he looked "shaggy" and "unkempt." Off we trotted to a salon that specialized in children's hair. "Make your child's first haircut memorable," it boasted. That was what we wanted, so we swaggered into the shop.

I was hoping for balloons and a parade, but instead I got a girl unexcitedly pointing to a sign that read, "Please sign in." I looked around. There was nobody in the shop, but I figured they must have lots of appointments, so I signed our son's name. The girl was sporting a nice skeleton tattoo on her arm along with her short, spiky black hair and extra thick mascara. She was sipping a Snapple while she watched a TV over in the corner. The sneer on her face did little to assure me of her ability to work well with children.

Tyler and I locked eyes with each other while we tried to communicate with our special marital telepathic abilities. "Should we go?" I tried to wiggle with my brows in Morse code. "No, too awkward to leave now," he shrugged and coughed in wordless response. I did notice him look at the door longingly. Isaac began to fidget and wanted to play. Several of the books in the waiting area were chewed around the corners. Perhaps this was done by some feral child dragged in from the wild to get a haircut, I mused.

The girl finished her Snapple and then calmly walked over to the counter. She checked the sign-in sheet. "Uh... Isaac?" she asked as she looked all around the (empty) room. We jumped up and presented Isaac to her.

"It's his first haircut!" I announced proudly.

She looked less than amused and asked, "Which chair do you want him in? We only have one for really young kids."

I quickly thought about this choice. Was it a trick question? The chair she directed us to was actually a battered circus elephant about four feet off the ground. It had a little bench for him to sit on, but no back, and the area for his feet was too shallow. It also lacked a seat belt, but I could see evidence of where one used to be. It was frayed around the edges; the feral child had already been here and thankfully escaped.

Lacking any sort of safety mechanisms, my husband bravely volunteered to hold our son in place. After a moment, the girl agreed, warning: "Don't get in the way, okay? My scissors are sharp." Yikes! Was that a threat? I suddenly began to worry for my husband's safety. I hoped he wouldn't try anything shifty. "No sudden movements," I tried to telepath to him, but he was looking away. He was on his own.

As my husband began to lift Isaac into the seat, I noticed that it was covered in hair. There were brownish hairs, blond hairs, and some others in between. Either the seat had not been cleaned for several appointments or the calico feral child running around with a well-gnawed-on copy of Goodnight Moon clutched in his jaw had immediately preceded us. "Could you maybe clean off the seat first?" I asked timidly. She looked inside the seat and let out a huff followed by an eye roll.

When the hair was cleared, we continued with our goal: our son's first haircut! It was already proving to be the memorable experience they had promised us. I couldn't wait to see what kinds of memories the actual haircut would provide.

She began with a few snips and then grabbed the buzz cutter. As the buzz cutter hummed away, my son started eyeing the thing with desperate concern. His little chest was rising up and down dramatically, and already his lip was starting to protrude, warning that he was about to cry. "Maybe not the buzz cutter," I suggested. She barely took her eyes off the television program she was watching as she replied, "Can't do that; have to use them."

Isaac began to cower into my husband as she came closer. When his head was completely buried into my husband's chest, the girl gave out an annoyed sigh. "I can't get to his hair." My husband tried to move away in hopes of exposing some of Isaac's head for her to work with, but Isaac's death grip coupled with my husband's security lock on his body was not providing any entry. I tried to help, but we all had little success. Isaac was wailing and trembling.

His first haircut doubled as his first traumatic experience. Someone was holding him down, another was prying his head from a safe location, and someone else was coming at him with sharp objects fashioned after implements of torture. The buzzer squealed and hummed in the background.

I tried to suggest more forcefully, "Can we try to just use the scissors?" The girl was exasperated now. "It will take longer," she grunted. She didn't look happy to be the one serving us and continued to go at Isaac with her tools. He screamed and cried and fussed, but she battled on with her task with what would have been gusto, but for the utter lack of enthusiasm.

Finally, we were done, and Isaac's face was red and wet with a look of fear. I stood shocked with my mouth open at the whole event, while my husband's face turned various shades of red. I could tell the experience of holding down our screaming son had triggered his fight or flight response. Meanwhile, the girl had brought out her most torturous instrument of all and exclaimed, "Smile!" I heard the hollow click and whine of a classic Polaroid. The flash blinded all three of us.

She gathered up some locks of hair from the floor and haphazardly plucked out the brown hairs that most obviously didn't belong to Isaac. When it seemed she was pleased with her selection of blond hairs, she taped them onto a yellow photocopied certificate. She promptly misspelled Isaac's first name and asked us how to spell "Smith" so she could get it right on the certificate.

Back in the car, my husband and I were speechless. Our son was still whimpering in the back seat. I decided that just this once I would allow him to use the pacifier I stash for naptime emergencies. He took it with a shaky hand that resembled a deprived smoker lighting up. I glanced in the window of the shop and saw the girl already back on her stool, enjoying what was left of her Snapple.

Just then, we saw a happy couple walking toward the shop with their smiling little girl. I had the urge to be a good citizen and warn them, but before I could roll down the window, my husband was speeding away. As the shop faded into the distance, the Polaroid began to slowly reveal the picture of the shock and horror that was our son's first haircut.

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