They Said Not to Do It: The Quarantine Haircut
There are things I’ve done that I regret in this life.
That 8 a.m. math class my freshman year in college is a big one (or, rather, the fact that I rarely showed up to it).
That pixie cut (“But Cameron Diaz looks so cute in hers!”) circa 2001.
But here, in this time of pandemic, I’ve done the most clichéd regrettable thing of all:
I cut Cian’s hair.
When I say “cut,” I mean I took scissors to Cian’s hair the other day, trying to maintain the style he’d had before. I cut it once, then twice to fix the once, then the final, cringe-worthy time to fix the mess I’d made the first two times.
My child. My beautiful sweet kid with the longish hair we both liked so much…
…now has a buzz cut.
He spent all of the day afterward glaring at me while pointing at his head: “I have ELF EARS!” But then the girls, thankfully, spent the rest of the evening telling him how great it was, and that he looked like a Jedi, and it did the trick. But now I can’t get a lightsaber out of his hands.
(David needed a haircut, too, and had asked me to trim his up. He took one look at what I’d done to our son and refused to let me near him.)
There are worse things to do in this life, or nay, in a pandemic. We decide that Love is Blind is almost quality entertainment and stay up too late hate-watching Netflix. We walk by the kid’s Zoom call not realizing her entire class has just seen us braless in the crappy pajamas. We chew food even though we know it will enrage at least one member of the people stuck eating with us.
But, if I can give you any advice: put the scissors/clippers down. Just walk away. Give the kid a hat if his hair is in his eyes and if he’s not complaining then don’t even go there. Just don’t.
Even if it will make him believe he’s a Jedi.