Gone Baby Gone

My Kiddo was known for his long hair.

He attended preschool at the local high school's early education program. While causing all the little teen girls to swoon over him, he noticed how all the "cool" older boys wore long, shaggy locks. He asked to grow his out. Okay, fine with me. I came of age in the grunge generation, and have no problem with guys with longer hair.  So, Kiddo grew his hair out at age four.

Now, I'm not talking Celene Dion's boy's long hair:  

(Yes, that is a boy.  To each their own.

And I wish my hair could look like that.)

But just brushing his shoulders, growing blonder each summer, highlighted by salt and sun.

age 5

We received no end of flack for his long hair over the years. Some friends and family of the older generation gently teased him. One relative flat out called him a girl and added an "a" to the end of his name (making it sound like a weird, yet feminine name). But he learned to stand up for himself, and the hair stayed.

Until yesterday.

And it was an accident.

He and I both needed a hair trim.  Being frugal and not wanting to go far, I patronize a local chain hair salon (okay, "salon" is rather too generous) once every few months when I get a coupon. Since Kiddo's hair was long, he could go months without a cut no problem, and I'd just trim his bangs and maybe the back every two months or so — basically when he couldn't see anymore.  Easy-peasy.

Back in December before I gave him a quick home trim.     

No, he didn't actually wear it like this.

Yesterday, while enjoying a long day off from school, we went for trims.

I went first. I just had an inch trimmed off an a little layering. No problem. We both chatted with the stylist. Kiddo popped up into the chair. I explained where his bangs needed to go and showed her about an inch, inch-and-a-half that needed to come off the back.

 "Layered?" she asked.


"Sure," I said. Layering is why I actually took him to get his hair cut. I trimmed it myself for years, but I couldn't get those dang long layers just right.

She cut the bangs and trimmed up the back first. All seemed fine. I flipped through my magazine.  When I looked up just a minute later, she was cutting layers. Up at the crown of his head. And inches of hair dropped to the floor. I bit back a gasp. (Never startle a woman holding scissors.)

It was too late anyway.

His long locks were gone, strewn across the salon floor.

Kiddo now has — a short shag? I'm not sure what you'd call it. It's not a buzz cut. But it's NOT LONG.

He looked slightly shell-shocked when he studied himself in the mirror at home. I was too. But I assured him he looked great, very handsome, and it was good to shake things up every now and then.

"You look like one of the guys on those Nick and Disney shows you watch," I said.

"Which one?" His eyes narrowed, his suspicions rose off of each two-inch hair.

"You know, the cool-looking one. . ." They all look the same to me.

At the playground, I could barely pick him out of the mass of boys tearing around. His hair had been so distinctive, now it just blended in with the crowd.

I went so far as to call the Hubby and warn him. He had long hair until his late 20's and now totally lived vicariously through his son. I reminded him to be supportive.

This morning, Kiddo climbed into bed and told me how he really didn't like his hair. I reassured him again, but I can't blame him. Our hair is a vital part of our self-image, our character, what makes us US. And it's rather startling to loose it in one fell swoop.

I miss it too.

It'll grow back, right?