Samson is Feeling Weak

The Pony has been growing out his hair. Not so much as a fashion statement as a statement that he hates having his hair cut. I let him go as long as I could. I will stop short of comparing him, in the manner of True Grit's Mattie Ross of near Dardanelle in Yell County, a less-than-tactful young lass, to a man of Texas, who cultivates his hair like lettuce.

The Pony has his father's hair. Well, hair like his father had when he HAD hair. It is a mixed blessing, much like that of Theodore "Beaver" Cleaver, who inherited the freckle-prone Bronson skin from his mother. And thankfully not her penchant for pearls. When The Pony's hair gets longer than a couple of inches, it waves. It kinks. It curls like a springy perm that Mike Brady paid good money for before flying off to Hawaii for his boys to find that bad-luck Tiki idol in a cave. Because The Pony showers at night, his hair is stretched and bedraggled by morning. The remedy is a quick scrunching of fingers dripping with water. That tightens it back into regular curls. The Pony's mane had grown so long that it came down past his eyes when unkinked. I decreed that he was getting it cut over this three-day weekend.

Hold on for a minute while I dab my eyes with my dainty, initial-embroidered hanky. Pass me the smelling salts. I am beside myself. My actions are akin to Pony abuse. It is enough to change my philosophy of spare the clippers and spoil The Pony's shot at normalcy. What that haircuttress did to my little Pony was a crime. A low-down, dirty, crying-shame crime.

We called ahead to check in. Never mind that the wait at that time was two minutes. It takes us twenty to get to town. You never know when a bus of Duggars might pull up for a round of shearing bill-footed by TLC. We arrived, parked, and elbowed a little girl and her mother out of our way. The butcher was none other than the Janice Dickinson lookalike who does such a fine job on my own tresses. I was not worried. I knew The Pony was in capable, experienced hands. I sat down to read a book.

Well. How was I to know that Janice was off her meds and on her drugs? I listened with a deaf ear to the small talk between the two. Thought nothing of it. Then I sensed that they were done, and looked up to see my poor Pony with a moon face like eyes and nose painted on a cue ball. Oh, the equinity! My little Pony had a forehead the size of the Mendenhall Glacier. And it was receding. I did not want to make him feel bad. Nor Janice herself, since she would no doubt be cutting my hair at a future date. "Whoa! It sure is short!"

As we went out the door, I said, "How come you didn't tell her it was getting too short?"

"I couldn't SEE it! I have to take my glasses off, remember? So I couldn't see in the mirror how short it was. Until I put on my glasses when it was done. And it's not even straight!"

"You're right. At least there are no holes in the back, like they did to Genius twice. The back looks good.. It will grow out. That's what my mom always told me when I got a bad haircut. Don't be surprised if kids say something about it at school."

"I know. If they do, I can show them your driver's license picture, and then I won't feel so bad."