As much as we hated to do it, we finally decided it was time to have Braden's first haircut and remove his cute, long curls which still allowed some people (although I have no idea how considering we dress him in "boy" clothes) to mistake him for a girl. Gone are the days of wild "jungle" hair as we call his sweaty, matted, tangled mess of a hairdo from when he wakes up from a nap. Gone are the days of pulling his hair back and pretending to put it in a miniature ponytail. Gone are the days of sweet, innocent, fine baby hair. *sigh*

I've been told that once you cut off your child's baby hair that their hair is never again the same. What was once curly ringlets now gives way to straight-as-a-board hair. What was once straight-as-a-board hair now gives way to curly ringlets. No matter what type of hair your baby has, it is gone by the wayside.

Jen called around early Saturday afternoon to see if she could find a barbershop that wasn't terribly busy. We preferred to stay in town if we could and avoid having to drive all the way into Little Rock. The second place she telephoned, called "The Cut Off", wasn't very busy that moment so we bundled the kids in the car and took off on a quick five minute jaunt to the little strip mall. It was a place I had seen nearly everyday since we moved here, it just never occurred to me that it was a barbershop.

During the drive there, Braden looked nervous and apprehensive. We had told him for days that we would be getting his haircut soon to prepare him for the actual event. You have to do these things as parents, you know. One of the prime rules for parenting is never to spring something that is a Big Deal (TM) on your child without any warning. The results could be disastrous if you don't follow that rule. Unless it's a Good Thing (TM). A Good Thing (TM) can be sprung on your child at the very last minute and they won't mind. But don't ever try to take your child to get their teeth cleaned or to some class without preparing them first. But like all immutable laws and corollaries, there are exceptions. For example, you never want to prepare your child for getting a shot. All that results in is a nervous, scared, anxious child from the moment you tell them until after the shot is over. Something like that you don't tell them until it's over. Of course they look at you like you're their worst enemy when it's over, but better that than days of a crying, whiny nerve-wracked kid. I guess it takes a good parent to know when to do the springing and when not to.

The rain doused us as we left the car and ran for the shelter of the awning in front of the barbershop. We walked in to see all the barbers busy in action, all with a customer at that particular moment. The barbershop looked like any other barbershop I had been in - various barber chairs scattered throughout the room, white linoleum, outdated magazines, and all the various haircutting implements at each "station." But the main difference was that contrary to having the usual "waiting area" at the front of the store, the waiting area was in the middle of the store with barber stations on either side.

Jen, being the practical person that she is, grabbed a couple of hairstyling books and settled into a chair to find one suitable for Braden. I, on the other hand, being the dreamer in the family, grabbed the latest issue of Interior Decorating for Dummies and Those With Exorbitant Bank Accounts (aka Home Magazine) and began thumbing through the various pages of expensive and ugly furniture. Every now and then, Jen would show me a hair style and I would either nod with approval or grunt with dissatisfaction. In my opinion, it was just a haircut, and it didn't matter if he looked like Calvin from Calvin & Hobbes or Little Lord Fauntlerboy. He didn't even have that much hair to begin with, how could someone possibly mess it up?

Ariel had taken up right next to Mom and was looking at hairstyles for herself. Aye carumba, the teenager years cannot come fast enough for her while I could do very nicely having her at her tender age of nine for the rest of her life. Braden watched nervously at one barber who was cutting the hair of a young boy, possibly five or six years of age. I guess he was trying to figure out what it was going to be like and if it was going to be very painful, not necessarily in that particular order.

By this time, I had glanced around the shop and had made a careful assessment of the various barbers working there. The barber closest the front of the store looked like he had just hung up his leather jacket and gotten off his Harley. Sporting a big bushy beard, long scraggly hair, and various tattoos inscribed with feminine names on his arms, I wondered how he became a barber, but the closest he was coming to my son with a pair of scissors was not at all. There was no way I was trusting my son's life, as well as his first haircut to a member of Hell's Angels. In the booth next to him was an elderly gentleman with white hair. Grandpa I could trust. And hidden away in the furthest booth was a lady who I didn't get a good look at. Nothankyouverymuchnooffense, I'd rather have a man cut my son's hair ifyouplease.

By his lonesome of the other side of the store was a gentleman who didn't look very imposing, but looked like someone who had just been let go from a Work Release Program. Short hair, earring in one ear (which one I don't remember), also a tattoo on his arm - he looked like the poster child for Ex-Convicts Anonymous - "Hi, my name is Frank, and I've been an ex-convict for 17 years." Oh please, anyone but him, I thought to myself.

As I sat there seemingly engrossed in my magazine, I kept glancing up to see how each barber was progressing and estimating which one would finish first. Please, please, please, I begged silently, please let it be Grandpa.

Suddenly, *ding ding ding*, we have a winner! For Braden's first ever haircut we have....

Mr. Ex-convict.

Crap.

Putting on my friendliest smile, not to impress him but to keep from pissing him off, I greeted him as Jen explained what we wanted to do. She showed him a couple of photos she found in the hairstyling book she was reading and they discussed which one would be more suitable while I kept a firm eye on his hands.

He pulled out a wooden board shaped like a booster chair (don't these things ever change?) and had Braden climb up on it. Nervously glancing at mom, he climbed up and then begged to hold her hand. The barber placed the whatchacallit - the sheet thingy that goes around your neck around Braden's neck and he was off. Armed with just scissors and a comb (and I kept an eagle eye on those scissors), he snipped away here and there. Soon after, my baby boy had been transformed into a flesh-and-blood little boy, with not-so-much baby left in him.

It turns out the barber's name was Greg, and he was one of the friendliest guys I had ever met. Whew. He was even a sports trainer once-upon-a-time so he was giving us some advice on Braden's lack of hair & tender fingernails (possibly a hormonal imbalance or vitamin deficiency). He did an excellent job and I have no qualms going back to him. That is, until I check with America's Most Wanted and confirm for myself that he's not a wanted man.

A year ago today: Serendipitous Coincidences