This week's prompt at Red Writing Hood is to write a piece about hair and whatever it means to us. Don’t simply describe it, use it as a vehicle to tell something about a character, a situation, us or our life.
He sat in the chair, the over-sized white plastic cape draped over him like a tent. His little feet, inside his tan boots, barely reached the edge of the seat, but he kept them perfectly still, just like his head. I had told him before we entered the salon that he’d have to sit very still so he wouldn’t accidentally get cut with the scissors. It amazed me how well he was obeying.
At home he was like a tornado, flitting from room to room, leaving a trail of destruction behind him. Nothing went untouched, nothing was put back in its proper place, and he was never motionless...until now.
He looked like a statue. I smiled at him. He just stared back at me through the mirror in front of him. I could only surmise that he thought even a small grin would somehow stir his head and the hairstylist would manage to sever an ear.
What had I done! Had I terrified the living daylights out of my child? If the scissors didn’t cut him and leave a permanent scar, would my warning?
I heard a SNIP and saw a beautiful brown, wavy curl float to the floor. I froze. Now I was a statue as I watched the stylist cut ALL the beautiful baby curls off my son's head. It was like watching her cut away three years of his babyhood. When the stylist finished, she removed the cape so he could see himself better in the big mirror.
“See?” She said to him.
His blue eyes met mine in the mirror and he said, “I a big boy now Mommy!” A grin played at the corners of his mouth as he waited for my approval.
I smiled and said, “You sure are and SO handsome!” The BIG grin came then and I saw for a split second the young man he would one day become.
But today…today he was still my little boy who shed his baby curls for a hair cut like Daddy’s.