The Barber

It has been my experience that boy's hair is far more work than girls.

Take my husband, for example. He visits the barbershop about every 4 weeks, like clockwork, to maintain his, a'hem, hairdo. Now, I do admire his dedication to his personal appearance, it is one of the things that I find attractive about him, but the dude gets more haircuts in a 2-month period than I do all year. Which makes me even more certain that my "mom do" is as hideous as ever and could use a little style, but truthfully, I don't really care that much.

I think I have only had one haircut in my entire life that I actually liked, and that was in college, in a land far, far away . . .

But back to my story.

The boys take after their father in the hair department. Not the amount of it, but the upkeep. The hair on their heads grows faster than a tomato in a hot house. Really. Which is one of the reasons that I've become their personal barber, without the license to style, of course! If I didn't cut their hair myself, I wouldn't be able to pay my electricity bill.

It is a win-win situation for us, not only do we spend less on haircuts, but I also get some coveted alone time with each boy during his haircut. Which is something that doesn't happen too frequently around these parts unless someone is in trouble.

The other night, Mom's Barbershop was open for business and it was McRae's turn. I needed to clean up his "do" for my mom's 60th birthday party so I corralled him into the bathtub, had him remove everything but his skivvies and pulled out the clippers. We've discovered after much experimentation that this is the easiest and most efficient way to execute the hair cuts because you can sweep out the tub with a few paper towels after you're done and wash the rest of what's left down the drain.

So, there we were.

The haircut was almost done and the phone rang.

I left him there, hairy as a sasquatch, to answer it.

After I got back to the salon, er, bathroom, he was standing with both arms straight down at his sides, a mischievous look on his face. Suddenly, he raised both arms and laughed like a sailor. There he was, with 2 gigantic bundles of his shorn hair - under - his - armpits.

"Ha, ha, ha, haaaaaaah," he yelled, "now I know what it's like to have hair under your arms!"

"Well, how is it?" I asked, "I don't have any so I wouldn't know."

"It's itchy."

This has been a busy and trying summer for us. On more than one occasion I've caught myself saying "dear god, make it all end" as I broke up yet another scuffle between the boys, or endured hours of whining and complaining. Thankfully, I have moments like these to make me laugh, grab my little (BIG) boy, and give him a great, big, hug and tell him how much I appreciate the person he is growing up to be (even if he has hairy armpits).