Hair today, gone tomorrow

My husband sheared our son like a sheep on Wednesday.

I knew our four-year old needed his hair trimmed. His thick, wiry blond strands were uneven, stuck out on all sides and generally gave him the appearance of having just gotten out of bed every moment of the day. He had quintessential bed head — all day long. His hair refused to cooperate with brushes, combs, water bottles, blow torches and hair spray, apparently enjoying just hanging out at odd angles in a different direction each day.

However, as someone who generally enjoys having her children look like they get their hair brushed at least weekly, suffice it to say my son’s hair gave me fits.

Since my husband got home from the desert over three months ago, I have caught him squinting at our son several times, randomly running his hand over the boy’s hair and occasionally muttering to himself.

Wednesday evening, after a really nice family dinner at a local, err, international, pancake house, my husband firmly told me he was going to give our son a buzz cut. It was partly my fault: I had attempted to trim his uneven sides and bangs a few days earlier. Upon this attempted trim which readily became a hack job, I came to the realization that four-year olds do not have bodies or temperaments made for sitting still and that individuals who cut hair for a living do not make nearly enough money.

My husband was not impressed at my attempt at trimming our son’s hair, but let it go until he decided to take it upon himself to remedy the situation a few days later. Truly, I did not think I did that bad of a job, but my darling husband is somewhat of a perfectionist. So, when aforementioned husband announced our son’s pending haircut, I reluctantly agreed after he told me he had hair clippers that allowed for about half an inch of hair left on the head.

I thought my son could possibly look adorable with short, spiky hair adorning his head, so I was okay with it.

I gave our baby girl a bath while Daddy proceeded to “trim” our son’s hair in the shower in our bedroom.

It was the screaming and the crying and the hyperventilating that first clued me in that something was off. After I got my husband to calm down, he explained that our son wasn’t happy about having his hair cut. I asked to look at the small, wailing, naked body currently inhabiting our shower, and was greeted with a snotty, sobbing miniature Daddy Warbucks.

My jaw agape, I looked at my husband and asked him with a stutter what happened to the _ inch of hair that was suppose to be left on our child’s head. My husband shrugged and told me he couldn’t find that blade so he just went with the only clipper he had access to. Apparently the bald one.

Once I calmed our son down by offering him chocolate, he allowed his Daddy to finish shearing him and then he joined his little sister in the bathtub where he washed the remnants of what had been his blonde locks off his body.

I couldn’t help it and just started giggling every time I looked at our little bald boy. I asked him how he felt about wearing hats. My husband, much affronted at my innocent query, told me that most Army soldiers trim their boy’s hair like he had just done. I decided not to go into my definition of a trim versus my husbands. But, apparently, there will never be any doubt as to what my husband does for a living if all soldiers give their boys bald cuts. Anyone who sees my son will immediately know that his Daddy must be in the Army.

After sending the kids to bed, I commenced writing this column. My husband saw me typing and informed me this week’s column better not be about the haircut he’d just given our son.

I told my husband the column was about sheep.

Tiffany Horvath is the mother of two and the stepmother of one. Her husband, Drew, was deployed to Iraq and returned home in December. She writes every Sunday abut life at home as a wife and mother.