Sunday, January 1, 2012
Beau was born with a full head of black hair, and it almost immediately fell out, as newborn hair often does. He was left with a brushy thatch on his back crown that, paired with his round cheeks, made him look amusingly like an infant Kim Jong Il. When it grew back, it was feathery, soft, dark chestnut, and voluminous. Here in Asheville, many little boys sport long hair. But the first time someone complimented me on my pretty little girl, when my son was about 10 months, he got his first haircut tout de suite. Turns out I was more traditional than I fancied myself to be.
I still have those first clippings. Since the inaugural chop, however, his hair's been cut so much I don't attach any sentiment to it. We zigzagged between salon and home haircuts, according to which mode I was in -- fond indulgence or determined frugality. Then my husband stepped in.
A haircut by Scott is a distinctive work of art. He's not trained, yet somehow the style looks remarkably the same every time. The first couple days, Beau's hair resembles a nest gathered in haste by a small, self-deprecating winter mammal. Soon enough it sprouts into a miniature sort of hipster cut: the Keith Richards shag with an elfin undertone.
There was a wiggly period that resulted in a haircut with big patches of exposed scalp. We thus entered the Years of Compromise, age 3-5, when I took Beau to one of those $10 chain places, emerging with a stare-proof -- if uninspired -- ’do. Today, though, spurred by cabin fever, Scott got out his shears. He draped Beau in a towel, salon-style, to promote big-boy behavior. It's possible a sugary bribe may have been involved.
"Now you can see his eyebrows," my husband said. Indeed.