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
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.
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.
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?"
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!"
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."