Saturday’s a big day for the family: Haircut day.
Wife, daughter and son. I’m left out as per usual. Just not cost-effective for the follically challenged to go to the barber. I can spend five minutes a couple of times a week and do it myself.
Haircuts are a big deal in our house because they don’t happen all that often. It will be a first for baby Brant. Just to trim some around the ears. And maybe corral that stuff on top that gets unruly when he gets sweaty. I sort of chuckle when I see it get out of control because I know, if genetics really do have anything to do with it, he’s already used up about 10 percent of the time he’s even going to have hair. Poor kid doesn’t even know yet.
How he is going to handle it, I have no idea. He made it through his first trip to the movie theatre last week, but no one was putting sharp objects in his face and his older sister wasn’t drooling all over him as she will this weekend. Like most 2-year-olds, he’s not real fond of sitting still for more than about 3 seconds, so we will see.
Now the day is also a rarity for Maren, who despite nearing her eighth birthday, is only going for her third haircut. Three. Ever. I cut my hair more times in a seven-day window than my daughter has in about 2,900 days on earth.
While Maren has certainly turned the corner into girlie girl, one thing she has not really concerned herself with is her hair. She prefers to wear it down rather than up in a ponytail, or even wear a headband to keep it back. She hates brushing it.
If she only knew what Brant was in for in about 25 years, she’d treat that stuff like Rapunzel’s golden locks.