Home Haircuts for the Boys*

*to the tune of “Let’s Hear it for the Boy” by Deniece Williams

If there’s one thing that everyone knows about me, it’s how much I love home haircuts.

I’m just kidding. I’ve never addressed home haircuts publicly. Or privately, for that matter. In fact, I’ve never even considered my feelings about home haircuts until typing these sentences right now.

But, for some reason, Tighe convinced Nate that I love them. Perhaps it’s just a ploy to save money at the barber shop, but a few weeks ago, when Nate mentioned that his hair was hanging in his eyes and over the tips of his ears, Tighe advised him to ask me for a haircut. 

For the record, no, I’ve no cosmetic or aesthetic or hairstyling training at all. I’m lucky if I brush my own hair every day. I usually just toss it up when I wash my face in the morning and leave it that way until I go to bed at night. 

But yeah, sure, what the heck? Give me some scissors and clippers, maybe a drink or two, and let me hack at your hair. 

As the haircut day approached, Lou, never one to be left out, also requested a haircut.

Sam, ever Sam, did not. 

Unless, of course, he “earned” a Lego set out of the event. 

“You’re not getting a Lego set just because you need a haircut,” we told him. Repeatedly.

Though, in fairness, the Lego-haircut exchange is a habit that we created years ago. When Nate and Sam were toddlers,Tighe took them to the barbershop, and if they were good, he took them to the toy store a few doors down. They loved it.

Nate’s pretty much grown out of that little transaction. Now he requests haircuts when he’s annoyed by constantly brushing his bangs out of his eyes. Or when he checks himself in the mirror and decides he needs a makeover. It’s very pre-adolescent. 

Sam, on the other hand, doesn’t give a $@#& about his appearance. Nor about the fact that the shaggy mane that hangs down over his shirt collar is technically a dress code violation at their Catholic school. Technically. 

So I was surprised on Sunday night, when I did, in fact, end up cutting his hair. All three boy’s haircuts were entirely different experiences. As are all three boys. Lou was the first. And probably yielded the worst results. 

I didn’t have a plan when he sat down, and that was my first mistake. I slid a guard on the clippers, barely paying attention to the number designation, and started running it across his head. 

What is this? I thought to myself. A fade? A buzzcut? 

I didn’t know. And because I was so distracted by his constant squirming and fidgeting, I didn’t really care. And I know he didn’t care. 

My second mistake was that I didn’t give him a screen. He gets plenty of screentime during the day, but perhaps some Paw Patrol or Outkast videos—his current favorite—would have kept him still. I doubt it, but maybe. 

Each glide across his scalp with the clippers caused him to jerk one way, then the other, bringing the blades a little too close to his delicate skin, even with the plastic guard. Lou jerked and jolted and quaked and tweaked and bounced like a meth head going through withdrawals. And when I finished with him, he looked like one.

And, in truth, I hadn’t really finished his haircut. I just didn’t want to risk screwing up his little head anymore. He had long strands that diverged disobediently from the top of his cowlick. His sideburns were uneven. I totally missed the soft, downy fuzz at the back of his neck. And worst of all, I had just drawn blood just behind his ear. 

So, although I was enjoying the conversation with Lou—mostly love proclamations for me, as usual—it was time to kick him out of my barber’s chair. 

Tighe directed him towards the shower so he could shampoo away all the itchy little fuzzies as Nate slid down in the chair in front of me. 

He was very specific with his haircut instructions: trim up around the ears, not too much off the front and top, even up the neckline in the back. 

I’d never felt so much pressure before. What if he looks ugly and girls don’t like him? Will his lax bro friends all shun him because of this haircut? Will he never have a girlfriend? What if I never have grandchildren? 

I handed him my phone so he could control the music while I nervously alternated between clippers and extremely dull (and cheap) scissors. I really need to study some YouTube videos about boys’ haircuts, I grumbled under my breath before asking him to check the mirror. Then I silently lamented about why I never invested in a sharp pair of shears, like my hairdresser friend always advises, followed by a mental pondering about whether the term “hairdresser” is the proper nomenclature. Hair stylist? Esthetician? Beauty school alum? 

“Uhh, there’s kind of a clump here that seems to be popping out,” he said, pointing to a very pronounced tumor-like bunch of hair just above his right ear. 

I sighed, silently debating whether that little bit of touch-up required the clippers or the really dull scissors. 

“Okay, we good?” I asked, peering at him in the mirror and twisting some of the locks between my fingers, measuring for evenness. 

He did the forehead hair flip thing that all the boys his age do, then tilted his head forward and shook it all out to dangle his bangs over his eyes again. 

“Yeah, good. Thanks, Mom.”

Not quite the emphatic declarations of undying love that I got from Lou, but I’ll take it. 

I swept the clumps of very fine, dirty blond hair into a pile and listened for Sam’s impossibly heavy footsteps on the wood floor. I knew he said he didn’t want a haircut, but he’s impulsive. Stubborn, but definitely impulsive. 

Sure enough, right after I slid the desk chair back into the bedroom, he poked his head around the corner. 

“Hi, Sam. Want a haircut?”

“How many Lego sets will you give me?”

“None,” Tighe called, overhearing from the other room. “We don’t care if you get a haircut or not. That’s your issue.”

“Yeah, but if it’s too long, I’ll get kicked out of school.”

“So?” Tighe scoffed. “There are plenty of schools we can transfer to.”

Having just completed the very tedious, very detailed application to Lou’s new preschool for next year, I got a tiny pain in my chest right as those words slipped out of Tighe’s mouth. If I have to fill out another application for another school, so help me, God.

Obviously, Tighe was bluffing, but since the new assistant principal at their school seems to favor strict discipline over creative expression and the well-being of the “whole child,” the thought of Sam getting kicked out of school has crossed my mind more than once. 

“Fine,” he said, dragging the chair back into the bathroom and having a seat. I stared greedily at the shagginess over his ears, but as soon as I started fiddling with the length in the back, he stopped me.

“No. I want a mullet.”

“Again?”

“Yes.” His resolve, as usual, was strong.

I blew out another long sigh and examined his head, tilting the top from one side to the other. I didn’t even know where to start, but the mullet of a thousand miles starts with a single chop. 

Business in the front, party in the back, I muttered to myself. For the next 10 minutes or so, that would be my mantra.

So I started with the ears, trimming the inch or so that had grown over to cover the tops of each one. 

Then, onto the front. How do I achieve a sense of aesthetic “business?” Where is the line between the party and the business?

I started with the bangs and began to work my way back. Maybe it’ll just work itself out—the transition between the board meeting and keg party will just happen as I cut. 

I’ll spare you my mental anguish. My uncertainty. My lack of confidence. Questioning every life decision I’d ever made until that point. Where I went to college. The extracurriculars I chose. Moving to Denver. Then back to Baltimore. Marrying Tighe. Accepting new jobs. Pursuing my master’s. Leaving said jobs. Opting for children. Moving to Kansas City. 

All of those decisions had led me to this point, this very moment. I’d survived, persevered, for a reason. And that reason was this mullet. 

For those wondering, I discovered that the mullet starts and ends at the crown of the head and ends somewhere mid-neck. Any longer than that and you’re looking at a rat tail.  A good cowlick up on top adds character, but from there, the mullet really develops personality all on its own. 

As of this writing, Sam has yet to be kicked out of school for his unruly hair. Now that the weather is warming up, the administration has bigger fish to fry: skirt lengths in the middle school. What a noble, high-minded crusade. Similar to my campaign for the most exemplary home haircut—my favorite activity.