I had just gotten my hair done, and it was my brother’s turn. Sitting on the plush salon seats with my Mom, what was more interesting than any coffee-table magazine was running my fingers through my hair. It felt so good- as it always does, after getting a nice inch or so off. My barbess, (female version of barber) had scrubbed and blow-dried my hair, and it felt so soft.

Not meaning to brag, but I guess I am. I shudder as I reflect on the elementary days- the days Mom had to get on me about brushing my hair, and I would go to school with it oily. My baby hairs weren’t grown out, and they’d stick out from where my bangs used to be. In all my school pictures, my hair looked like brown-colored, not quite “al-dente” spaghetti that hung from my head.

I jump off this train of thought and go back to watching with pride as my brother gets his hair done. A few months ago, I told my brother he should grow a quiff in the front, showing him pictures of good quiffs on guys like David Beckham, who-not for nothing-did win sexiest man alive a little while ago. My brother went for it, and with the use of a little hair gel, he’s been working at it for weeks now. It’s coming along quite well, and I give myself a little credit.

Anyway- this isn’t even the point of this story-what happens next is: this little boy and his mother and sister come into the salon. The kids look very young; I’d guess the girl is about 7, her brother even younger. They scheduled ahead; their hair stylist is waiting for them. A smart move made by a smart mother for two kids that are at their impatient age. The little girl goes first, and then it’s the brother’s turn. He climbs up into the chair that, even at its lowest, his feet couldn’t touch the floor from.

“So cute.” I whisper to my Mom beside me. And, he is so cute. The little boy starts to tell the barbess how he wants his hair. His voice is high-pitched with his youth, and he stutters, interrupting his sentences with “um”s and “uh”s.

“Your hair is going to look very good.” The hair stylist assures him.

He goes “mm” before he starts his sentence, like a car revving up its engine. “Whe-When I get my hair done, I a-actually don’t like it when people compliment my hair.”

His mother starts to cut in, but he carries on.

“I like…I don’t like to be at the center. Of attention.” He stops with a fragment.

“You like to go unnoticed, mhm,” The barbess sympathizes.

I smile as I pick up a magazine, giving into curiosity-how was Sofia Vergara’s wedding? The hair stylist is buzzing the boy’s hair on top, and she finishes. She pulls out scissors.

“I have to get the hairs at the nape of your neck.” She tells him. He pulls his hands from under his butt.

“It’s ok, honey.” His mother looks up at him as she lowers to a crouch. It all escalates from there. The barbess puts the scissors to his neck, and he starts to go loudly,

“Ummm…”
“I DON’T like that! Mom, I DON’T like it!” His voice gets louder and more frantic.

She snips. He yelps. “I don’t like this!” He whines as his mom tries to hold him. His hands fly to his head, and he moves.

“Don’t do that!” The barbess says disapprovingly. Then, the father walks in.

“How’s it going..?” His voice dies. The kid hears his father. He starts screaming louder. “I want this over with! I don’t like getting my hair cut!” The mother looks painfully up at the father. “I wish I didn’t have to get my hair cut!” Snip, snip, snip.

“It’s almost over.” The barbess says. Snip, “Owww!” He lurches forward, but the barbess didn’t cut him. He wants to climb out of his seat. He is crying. “I don’t like. this. part.” It comes out choppy with his sobs.

“I’m done,” the barbess announces, and he nearly jumps out of his seat. He runs into the back as if he knows where he’s going.

“Your hair looks so good!” The hair stylist that did my hair earlier tries to help. She didn’t get the cue from earlier. You hear the boys wails grow slightly quieter as he’s in the back. His mother fled after him.

“Where’s he going?” His barbess says. She looks flustered and a little embarrassed, and she says this with a nervous laugh. She busies herself sweeping up the hair that’s on the floor, scattered around the chair, from countless haircutees. One of the ladies waiting for her haircut announces aloud,

“My son did the same thing.”

My Mom jumps in, speaking to my brother but also to everyone, “Jack, you hated getting your hair cut.”

“I remember that!” I further tease Jack.

“I just liked my long hair.” He shrugs under his salon coat.

“It’s a boy’s thing.” The lady who spoke first summarizes.

“I think I’m going to be the one who takes him to get his hair cut next.” The father of the young boy enters the conversation. We all laugh. The boy comes back into the room. The barbess is done sweeping, and is putting away the supplies: the comb, the scissors…

The boy sees the scissors and whimpers.