Another Story About Hair

Rafe has the best hair in our family.  It's long and thick and dark, and always kind of looks cool.  I always have it cut a little long and floppy although I know those days are numbered as he has been asking for a haircut "like all the other boys have got".  So last Monday, maybe about 6 weeks overdue for a cut, I PROMISED him a haircut.  "We WILL get your hair cut after school" I promised, he's been asking for one for ages.  Just a thought...is he going to be one of those teenagers who rebels by shaving his hair off "coz my mum always made me have long woosy girl hair when I was a kid"?

So with Rafe at school happily mollified by the thought of an after school haircut, I started trying to book him in somewhere.  I mean ...anywhere.  Nothing was open.  Monday must be the new Sunday for hairdressers!  I rang, I worked my way through the local yellow pages, I started to feel the cool cloak of fear - Way way overpromised and about to severely underdeliver.

Just then I stumbled across a free apointment - actually it seemed like we could have our pick of appointment times.  First whisper of doubt in my head.  Should have listened.  The salon name sounded ok, sort of trendy'ish, but when he mentioned where they were, I had a vision of a salon that he was talking about, it was blurry, but something troubled me.  Louder doubts started taunting me.  But I had promised a haircut.  What to do?  Postpone and disappoint a 6 year old with long hair or ignore the voices of doubt and go for it.

Which is what we did.

Shite, when I saw it.  THAT skanky salon.  As I drove past looking for a park, I was so tempted to phone and make up an excuse  to cancel, but it was too late and I was thinking "maybe I'm his first and only customer for the day, oh gawd, my baby's hair...noooooo. ".  As we walked in, the wall of ethnic cigarette smoke slapping us in the face.  Is that even allowed anymore?  Rafe, my gorgeous boy, was so excited about finally getting a haircut, he didn't notice the smoke, the faded (ethnic) seventies posters, the big round hair dryers, the chipped brown lino, the yellowed fingers. 

Nope he didn't, BUT HIS MOTHER DID!

Voices inside my head were screaming "Abort, abort, abort!!!!!", but I couldn't, too late and too embarrassing.  So I did the only thing I could think of, "Only a tiny little bit off thanks, we like it long", and I watched like a hawk, as Rafe's beautiful hair was trimmed only a smidge.  Rafe gave me a "What the?" look, and I gave him a "trust me buddy" look back.

And tomorrow, we are going to a trendy salon, with a hair stylist that I trust and like for Rafe's second hair appointment in less than a week.

Let that be (another) learning for me.

This photo is AFTER the scary haircut incident.