Wednesday, December 13, 2006


Take a look at this picture. Tell me what's wrong here. And I mean apart from the extremely goofy look on my child's face. And I also don't mean that his shirt is hanging out and his diaper is showing. That, I am used to.

What else is wrong?

It's the hair. The monkey's hair is out of control. It is thick and long and shaggy and poking his eyes out. This picture is from our recent trek to visit mall santa. There, the wise men in marketing decided we would be more likely to stick out the long lines if there were diversions set up for the kiddies. So, they created an indoor snow station, where lovely bits of fake snow drifted from the heavens and accumulated in piles for the tots to play with while they waited in line.

The monkey really loved this.

I mean, he really loved this. He created a game on the spot which involved scooping up handfuls of this stuff, and tossing it atop his own head. Great fun.

Except, that this stuff was sticky. And it refused to be brushed off. It's been over a week, he's had multiple baths, daily brush outs and comb-throughs, and I am still seeing this stuff. Why? Because his hair is out of control.

Today, I had enough and bundled him off to the barber shop. That's right - the manly, man's choice of hair cutting establishments. No more cutesy - tootsy overpriced kiddie hair salons for my little monkey. We went to the real thing, the town barber. He even had one of those striped barber shop poles that spin around outside. That's what caught my eye in the first place, since we pass the store twice a week en route to gym class. And the monkey loves that barber pole. Loves watching the colors twirl around, loves announcing that this is the cut-cut place.

And he was great while we waited there, inhaling second hand cigar smoke and watching other men get their hair cut-cut and buzz-buzzed. He was a real champ, smiling at the other customers. He even looked straight at one of them and announced, "Hi, Buddy." (Sorry, Brandon, it appears you are not the only Buddy out there.) I had such high hopes.

I hoped to avoid a repeat of the last four times I have taken him to the hair salon, where I have been regaled with the high pitched screams of a monkey being tortured. How was I torturing him? I had the audacity to sit him in a specially-designed race car chair, in front of a video of Baby cartoons, with a balloon in one hand and promises of lollipops to come. And all he had to do was sit there while the nice lady cut his hair. He never bought it. Not once. Each and every time I took him, it was a friggin disaster, and I swore, that this time would be the last.

But, as usual, I reached a point where I couldn't take it anymore. So, there I was, at the town barber, praying that this time would be different.

And he was doing so good in the waiting area.

But then it was his turn to sit in the big-boy chair. The man's chair. What happened? Oh, just guess.

Monkey: "No. No. No! Bye, Bye! Bye, Bye, cut cut! " (he waves his hands bye-bye for emphasis."

Barber: Umm..hey there, little ready for a big boy hair cut?

Monkey: All done. ALLLLLL....DOOOOONNNNEE.

Me: Can I sit on the chair with him and hold him down, while you give him a quick cut?

Barber: No, I'm sorry ma'am. Can't handle the liability issues. If he lunges while you're holding him, he might get hurt. If he won't sit still on the chair, I can't give him a cut."

Me: Come on monkey, it'll be over quick. Just like the big boys. Buzz, buzz. What do you think?

Needless to say, we walked out of there with monkey's hair intact and my ego bruised from yet another battle lost with my toddler.

And lest you think my troubles will be over's what I have to look forward to:

Miss Mina, bed head queen
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