Lately, I’ve been obsessively staring at my son’s hair. I’m like the cartoon guy marooned on an island who sees his buddy as a chicken leg- I see my son’s ideal hairdo every time I look at him. I get itchy fingers whenever I see that little twist of hair growing past his ears or his bangs sneakily creep past his eyebrows. The reality is that I am no hair artiste. I also have a canvas who is adamantly against me practicing on him. I want him to be my tolerant Bonsai tree that I can shape and mold to my imagination, but he is a screaming kudzu vine with legs.

I remember reading that Kate Hudson didn’t cut her son’s hair til he was, oh, I don’t know, like 8 or something. But being uncool and impatient, I decided to take him to a hairdresser when he was 18 months. He needed some upkeep and he also has a very large head (95th percentile!). We needed to keep those wispy fringes at bay. The husband said he was starting to look “Progeria-y”.

I unexpectedly made our hairdresser have a very bad day. I mistakenly thought beauticians had a range of skills to keep children entertained while they cut their hair. Well, this dear woman tried every trick in the book to get Boychild to cooperate and sit still, but it did no good. He cried, he turned his head, he tried to run off. He even made it out the door at one point. The hairdresser was left shaken and we were both sweating from the effort of keeping him in the chair. Wisely, we gave up. I have since taken matters into my own hands.

I was raised Southern and hair is very important to us. VERY important. It is as topical as the weather to talk about one’s hair. In fact, the two go hand in hand. To wit: “Girl, it is so humid today, I cain’t do nothin’ with my hair.”  My mom and I often conversate on hair before getting to whatever we’re actually calling about. We talk about our hair, each other’s hair, other people’s hair. Nothing and no one is off limits. As a child, I was repeatedly asked “Honey, do something with the back of my head. It’s got a hole in it. You see that hole? Can you tease it or something to cover it up?” My general philosophy is don’t fight what God gave you, hair-wise. I tell this to my mother and sister who both have amazing hair which they wrassle into submission on the regular. I am ignored.

Grand visions of fabulous toddler hairdos dance in my head. Online, I see all these cute little moppets with styled manes and wonder “how the hell did they get that kid to sit still?” Voodoo springs to mind as a possibility. Or maybe those kids are all really 14 and are just small for their age. I feel like it’s a ruse. Magic. Something. I bet they bribe them with puppies and toddler-sized yachts.

Because I have an itchy scissor finger, Boychild has had some gapped-up haircuts in his little lifetime. Once I cut his bangs so close he looked like Friar Tuck. Last haircut, I took a hunk out of his left side, leaving him with a bald patch near his ear. “At least it’s hat season,” husband said. We have a great collection of giant hats to hide my sins.

Now it’s spring and we’re making our first pilgrimage to the south with Boychild. He’ll be meeting relatives and friends for the first time, so the pressure is on to make sure he looks tended-to. “Like he ain’t no throw-away,” as mom would say. Last week, I tried to just trim him up a little, but instead I shaved little uneven rows in the back of his bumpy noggin. I just completely failed!

For past haircuts, I used to be able to get away with feeding him cheddar bunnies and parking him in front of Daniel Tiger while I trimmed, but no more. The “nos’ keep getting louder, and the shoulders rise to the ears. The tears begin, and I just don’t have the heart to hold him down and shear him. He’s just going to have to be my shaggy little hippy child. Until he gets old enough to bribe. Then it’s game on.