Go Get The Clippers

Squinting against a setting sun and the repetitive tugs of the comb, my son sat perched high on a bar stool on our back deck while I pruned little blond hairs off the top of a head full of innocence and happiness. As if a little hair in his eyes could spoil either of those.

Surprised by my unexpected offer, he had climbed right up into the chair. After all, I was the “Dad” and he had six years worth of confidence in me; if I’d said I could give him a haircut, then I probably could. Neither of us gave much thought as to why I would want to do it in the first place, but I guess I figured it was a “Dad” thing to do. Something inside of me said that a boy probably shouldn’t grow up without his dad taking a whack at his hair at least once or twice, if only for the story of how badly it turned out.

So out came the usual trimmings: glass of water, comb, clippers and cape. The cape was key because once I put it on and stuck my finger in the neckline to check the fit, I suddenly felt official. My son simply felt like squirming and giggling away from my finger.
I set to work with the clippers, focusing on the back and sides with determination until I had cut enough to realize that unless I did something with the top, he would have that great story to tell. It would start something like... “Hey Dad, remember when you gave me that bowl cut?” So I picked up the comb and scissors and started telling myself that if it went badly I could always shave his whole head, call it a military cut and hope it grew back fast.

While I tried to recall how I had seen my own hair cut hundreds of times, my daughters giggled along with their brother as our dog chased stray hairballs off the deck and onto the lawn. Somewhere in the middle of all this, I began to realize that I’d only seen this done backwards and from the other end of the scissors.

While stroking up another length of hair in my now perpetual attempt to even up the other side of his head I had an image of the softer, more evasive side of little boys: hidden behind rows of little green soldier men, baseballs, and rug burns. It was becoming harder to find this side of my son lately. He would gladly share it with his mother, but I think we boys are wired in such a way that it often makes softness harder to find in each other. I found myself lifting more hair and enjoying the contact I knew wouldn’t last as he continued this transition. I wondered how we would end up seeing each other along the journey.

He felt so much like my little boy rather than a grown-up son that I had the urge to hold him back from what lay ahead, from my fear that moments like this would be harder to find as we both continued our journey towards that thing called manhood. Meanwhile my three-year-old daughter was dancing like a new foal under my feet. Hanging on my knees and my every word, she ducked and circled around my left leg without ever getting off the top of my foot.

Both the girls begged me to trim their hair, and promised not to complain if I cut it unevenly. Without much success, I tried to explain the ramifications of a bowl cut on a young lady’s life. Finally, I simply told the truth: Mom would not be pleased.

Time swept along, and the sun began to stream across the valley floor before shade finally won out and the first cool air of a summer night snuck in. For a while time had stood still while my son and I re-enacted the thousands of haircuts history held before us, taking part in a ritual whose full meaning still escapes me, but still felt necessary and good.

I started to trim deliberately and carefully, finishing with more than a few extra tussles and neckline checks. And while his hair eventually turned out O.K., we were both better.

When the sun finally dropped off of the western skyline, I knew this moment had already passed A kiss on his head was all I could manage before he pulled off his cape and flew across the deck to join his sisters in the hammock while I cleaned up the dustbowls of hair the dog and the wind hadn’t taken care of.