The hair in our house is too long. Way too long. Ryan looks like a woman, I look like a mountain man, Christian looks like Ben Wallace, and Max? Well, Max can’t look anywhere because his blonde locks are covering his eyes.
Andrea cuts our hair practically for free, which is the World’s Most Wonderful Blessing, but it also fills us with a tremendous sense of guilt. She cuts our hair when she could be cutting full-paying customers so we do our best not to abuse this service. We wait until the last possible moment, sometimes in hopes that when she sees us we will look so horrible and scraggly, she will demand to cut our hair. Well, okay. If you insist, Andrea. I guess I could probably use a cut.
I think my dad has reached that point. He keeps offering to cut Christian’s hair, but I don’t think I can trust him. He used to cut my brothers’ hair when we were young, so I’m familiar with his two preferred cuts: Short and Really Short. It’s only a matter of time before he lures Christian with a candy bar into the laundry room of his house and buzzes him.
Getting a haircut at Andrea’s is always fun. Since her shop is at her house, we get to hold the twins and watch her two year-old, Landon run around and do somersaults. Ryan gets a huge kick out of it and says over and over, “Landon, do your trick!” Obediently, Landon takes off full force on his stocky legs and does a head-first somersault. It’s wildly entertaining, although eventually Landon is too dizzy to walk, but that’s fun to watch too. I bet you don’t get this kind of entertainment at your salon, do you?
My favorite part of my haircut is when Ryan starts rolling his eyes because as soon as my rump is in the chair, time in Ryan’s World slows down to a grinding halt. (This also happens when I run into the grocery store or gas station and sometimes even the bathroom.) It takes about an hour and a half to cut and color my hair. Always has. Always will. If you ask him, it takes 3 days. I frequently suggest that we drive separate cars the 4.5 miles to Andrea’s so he can leave when he is done, but I guess he would rather sit there and pretend his skin is being eaten off by tiny invisible cannibal elves. It’s a lot of fun.
My hesitation to call Andrea recently has everything to do with the fact that the dust has not yet settled on her wrecked motor scooter. I haven’t been able to think of a good way to say, “Sorry again about your scooter, is there a good time for you to give me a free haircut?” It just doesn’t sound right. I purchased a gift last week to take when we finally go to ease my guilt. I bought Mrs. Meyers dryer sheets, because nothing says “I’m sorry and thank you” like geranium-scented laundry.
Thankfully, Ryan talked to her Monday. Apparently her Cosmotologist Senses were warning her that unless our hair was tamed soon, it was going to take nuclear force to get things back in order. So, tomorrow afternoon we have a family appointment. I’m thinking that while Ryan is getting his shampoo and trim, I ought to ask to take another spin on the motor scooter. I just know I can get it right this time. What do you think?