God bless my friend, Ana. She’s been crafting great things out of my overly thick, let’s just call it kinky, hair since I was 14 (a mere 11 years, right?). I first met her when my mom brought me to her salon so she could whip up a crown of braids on my head for my 8th grade graduation (yes, in the eighties). To my dramatic tween self, it was pure magic, and not only because it held up over a night of sleep (the ceremony was too early in the morning to allow for the beautification time required). And since then, she is the only one to truly listen to me and deal with my haircut paranoia (Not too short! A little shorter so I don’t have to come back next week! No mushroom head!). I’ve had some pretty miserable styles in the past, but none from Ana. To this day, she takes care of my mom and my sister, who drives an hour plus each way for the privilege, and all their follicular glory.
She’s even a teacher now. Good to know that knowledge and technique will be passed forward.
When I was pregnant with Sammy, when we didn’t know if he was a he or she, Ana told me, in no uncertain terms, that she would be cutting this kid’s hair, and that of any subsequent kids I may have. Poor dear, she didn’t know what she was in for. I’m fairly sure Sammy’s shrieking terrified the other stylists in the building, not to mention the patrons of the dollar store next door and the animals in the pet store at the end of the block. Because of these fits, and to spare the good folks within a 3 mile radius of her salon, we’d take him to other places occasionally. But I’ve never been as happy with the results. I know it slightly annoys my husband to take his strapping young boy to a hair salon – for girls, yuck – instead of a barber shop, but too bad.
And so we arranged for a good clipping since Sammy was getting pretty shaggy and school pictures are coming up (there are any number of things that can go wrong with this venture, and hair need not be one of them). He’s big enough to climb into and sit in the chair on his own now, instead of sitting on my lap (a situation that not only added to his height but also allowed me to be a human straightjacket for my trashing wildebeest son). And although he was a little nervous and hesitant to submit, once he realized the clippers merely tickled and that I’d hold his hand through the whole thing, he was a model client. I did help hold his head in the right position so as to achieve proper haircut balance (and keep his ears from getting nicked), but he laughed and smiled throughout the whole process and came out looking like a little man inside of 5 minutes.
As a bonus, I gave in and let Chris ask for a little snip snip of the front of Sabrina’s hair (as long as he dealt with the consequences). I grew up with the horizontal bangs across the forehead and I swore I’d never force a daughter of my own to endure that look, and am therefore adamantly against bangs. But Chris hates the way her hair falls in her eyes (no, a few blond wisps are not obscuring her vision). Fine. While I still maintain jurisdiction over my baby moppet’s tresses (no dad should try to wrest that control from a mom), I allowed for a minor trim. It’s not exactly bangs, but it sort of is, and I’m not sure how I feel about it, but her hair seems to grow with the speed of a thousand cheetahs, so I’m not going to wring my hands over the decision. And she’s still cute. But she can scream like a banshee, and scream she did, which is why Ana got exactly 3 snips in before we all raised the white flag. But that’s all she needed (and all I could stand).
As I said before, God bless Ana – for dealing with my kids, and mostly for dealing with me all these years. For understanding precisely what a little different means. For knowing that a really good salon experience must include lots of juicy gossip and conversation, with a side of confession and trusted silence. For making me feel even more beautiful than I look.
We really miss you Sammy and Sabrina. Stay sweet and we will see you soon. We like your haircuts!
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