You are just a little boy with an impish face but the features of a man are there, hidden in the cuteness, like a almost transparent overlay that every so often catches the light just right and you can see the picture of you decades from now. You are being brave because your momy sold you on the whole idea of a hair cut. You don’t like hair cuts. You don’t like the strange smells, the scissors near your face, the buzz of a clippers and the feel of them against your skin. Most of all, you don’t like that someone else stands between you and your mommy and holds your face, but not in the way mommy does, stroking and smoothing, kissing and loving, but in a way that says “man” and “business” and wants you to turn your head or hold still . . . when all you want to do is slip out of the chair and run.
I see you weighing up the cost and doubting the process. You traded a haircut for some chocolate. You wince as the hairdresser squirts water all over your head and it drips down into your eyes. Your hand moves up instinctively to wipe it away and instead of fixing the problem, you have now transferred all the little cut hairs that were on the cape between your hand and your face, onto your face. Now, you are desperately wiping harder to get the hairs out of your nose, your eyes, your mouth . . . and every movement makes it worse. Mommy steps in and tries to help, wiping your face and kissing your forehead, trying to reassure you. She tries to make you understand you have to stop wiping with your hand, you are only making it worse. You just feel frustrated, but you try. You sit, and you struggle under the cape to be ok, but you are not. No-one seems to understand, and so your bravado, the shell of your future manhood that is so newly formed and still somewhat fragile, crumbles to the floor and you cry.
And all I want to do is rescue you. Continue reading