It lay in a small corner in the bathroom cabinet – unwanted and
forgotten. A long time back when we lived in the US, and my son was a
co-operating toddler (yeah mom’s of toddlers, you heard it right. Wait till
your sons become teenagers) , I would use it to avoid an unnecessary quarterly expense.
And here it is again, all dusted and brushed , ready to make it’s mark again – (drum
roll) The family clipper!
Now as much as I looked forward to using it, I knew I would face
some resistance when it came to the boy – now 12 yrs old and having a strong
opinion about who would trim his long, unkempt locks. It reminded me of the
sheep shearing session we witnessed on our recent trip to a farm in New Zealand.
It would be physically impossible to handle the boy this way
now. I had to find another way. I tried emotional blackmail - “How can I kiss
your forehead every night with all the shabby hair in the way?” Didn’t work. Pure
blackmail – “You want me to make the brownies for you, right?” Mom’s (think
they) have tremendous leverage over the other members of the family over supply
of food during lock-down. Didn’t work – he made them on his own.
Finally, the father came to rescue and agreed to be the
guinea pig. (He later argued he was forced. Like the many mysteries of the
world, no one will ever know the truth. 😊). After numerous rounds of discussions at
the dinner table, it was decided that I would have to cut Dad’s hair first,
while the boy would watch and if he felt I had done a good job, I would be allowed near him with the clipper.
D Day! The newspapers were laid on the floor. A stool was
placed on it. An old sheet would be used to cover themselves from the falling
hair. The dad sat diligently. The boy observed closely. My steady hands went
about with the clipper - buzzzz, buzzzz,
buzz - using intuition, past experiences,
and the knowledge gained from a few you tube videos I had watched recently. I
did what the hands said.
Dad was done. He walked away hamming; unconvincingly repeating “Vah thanks, great haircut”. I think in his heart he was just relieved he was recognizable in
the next zoom meeting. The boy somehow bamboozled by dad’s over acting, came
forward. He gulped and sat uncomfortably, probably still wanting to make a dash
out of the room. A few reassurances later, the clipper buzzed again. Clearing
out the mop on his head would mean I turn on rage mode. BUZZZZ, BUZZZ, BUZZZ.
Then some final snips with the scissors and all done! He seemed sufficiently happy with the result.
He even asked if I could style it by shaving some straight lines on one side. I
obliged. He dusted the sheet and walked out happy. No tip ☹
Later in the day he thanked me and said he felt fresh
and light. “You are welcome,” I said. “Can I cut your hair tomorrow, Mumma?” “Oh,
no one dare touch my hair”, I responded!
