Sometimes a haircut is not just a haircut. Especially in the middle of a pandemic. I, like many, feel fussy about my hair, and fussier about who cuts it. Which makes little sense given how little time I spend maintaining it. But I value symmetry and precision, especially when someone wields scissors near my face. I have not had my tresses trimmed since, well, I don’t remember when. When wet, my thoroughly incorrigible, corky, frizzy mane fell below down my back below my shoulder blades. It hasn’t been that long since, well, I don’t remember when.
It has spent the majority of the lockdown locked up – in butterfly clips, head wraps, or scrunchies. I have blown it out exactly once, to appear in public to recite a poem dedicating a piece of public art. Otherwise it has gone largely untamed. So just making the appointment to have it cut felt like a major step toward a return to civilization, augmented by the fact that my oldest son would join me at the salon to have his cut as well.
It’s a treat when your kids ask to do anything with you. But especially when the particular kid’s hair is, itself, tangled up in emotion. My firstborn sprouted sunshine-colored, Shirley Temple-like ringlets which I cherished like Jason did the Golden Fleece. I wept at his first haircut, which occurred long after his father would have liked, because I so loathed to lose that shining crown that represented his babyhood. I, of course, saved a clipping from that momentous day.
Later, he sported short, almost shorn hair, but kept a rattail curl at the nape of his neck. This, too, was the subject of much consternation for his father, but I loved the little link to his even younger youth. Often urged to lop it off, he stood strong and made the decision to do so unilaterally. One day, just like that, at age twelve, he informed me that he was ready to let it go. I wept then, too, because it represented yet another transition, and kept that clipping, too.
He spent one summer at an Iowa Writer’s Workshop program in Dublin, and I took advantage of his tenure there to visit the Emerald Isle. He was shaggy, but reluctant to try a barber overseas, so I accompanied him – for my Euros as well as for courage, and we found a small shop that had as many photos of sample beard styles as hairstyles in the window. He got, and I paid for, a stylish Irish cut. I neither wept, nor scavenged for clippings, knowing I’d embarrass him and likely be banned from his haircuts forever if I did. I did not feel wistful as much as gratified. That, like the Bob Dylan concert we attended there, was a wonderful souvenir memory of our week together.
When I visited him in Nashville where he had set out to make his mark as a singer/songwriter after college, he looked like a proud rooster with a very salient comb. His budding manhood allowed him to sprout substantial facial hair, too, so he was just plain hirsute above the neck. He had not yet established a relationship with a barber but was ready to shear the shock of hair – it was getting in his way, and as he told me today, that’s usually when he knows it’s time to let it go. A quick Google search located a very hip shop not far from where he lived in East Nashville, and so I found myself waiting in a leather chair amidst countless iterations of beard wax, while he again, smock-wrapped, took the chair. No tears. No tissue-wrapped snipped ends. I was getting very good at dealing head-on (pun intended) with the haircut. I marveled at the fine creature that is this son.
Fast forward to today, when we both decided it was high time to clip the overgrown pandemic hair. His hair had grown so long that, even held back by the thick headbands that I’d bought him, it distracted him from important things like seeing. My stylist had recommended Will for Dustin, and I hovered as they discussed their plan for his head. Will must have wondered why this almost-28-year-old brought his mommy with him, until he realized that I, too, had an appointment. Dustin came over to Racheal’s station where I sat once he was coiffed, and again, I beamed at his beauty (OK, I realize I have a tiny bias here).
I did not pick up scraps of his hair (although I did photograph them). But I did feel emotional. Emotional because my visit to the salon and haircut (blown out like a proper adult) marked one small step back to something that smacks of normality. Emotional because it also marked the umpteenth time that I’ve accompanied this once toddler, now accomplished young adult, to have his hair cut. I saw that little boy with golden ringlets, and that adolescent with the defiant rattail, and that independent young man making his mark on the world in Dublin and Nashville all in one as I made both Will and him slightly uncomfortable today by lingering too long at his side. He claims not to be too tied to his hair or how it looks. I think he looks handsome with it short or long or any length in between.
As we left, he felt concern that he’d make it back in time for a 12:30 call – he – this golden-haired boy - has launched his own freelance writing business, Guitar&Pen (https://www.dustinlowman.com/) and had to get back to it. I felt a glowing pride because I had launched – and seen through many haircuts – the golden-haired boy.
I love this, Diane! I kinda like his long shaggy headband look, but he looks very handsome either way. :)