Bad Hair Day

Bad Hair Day.

I'll miss my sister making that big curl on the top of my head. She would wash my knees, bathe me, get me ready for bed and tell me stories of future glories to come.

"If all the girls lived across the sea, what a good swimmer John would be."

Then she would tickle me, well, she would threaten to tickle me.  Holding her hand out and wriggling her fingers, "I am going to tickle you." 

Just the very thought of it would have me curling up with glorious laughter.

She would tell me stories of Jack and Jill, Little Miss Muffet, and itsy bitsy spider.

Then she would say, "where is your nose?" And I would point to it.

Then she would say, "where is your ear?" And I would point to it.

Then she would say, "where is your mouth?" And I would point to it

Then she would say, "where is your hair?"  And I would point to it.

My home was the happiest place on the planet, at least till that day. Well, I don't really know what a planet is, but I think it is where we are.

Something was happening. It heard mom, dad, and sister talking. It's confusing, but looking back, finally, I understand what they were talking about.

Mum: "I think he will be here soon."

Dad: "Not a day too soon; he looks like a girl."

Sister: "No, he does not; it's cute."

The sun is shining through the window, casting light into an otherwise dull room. In the finger of light spread across the living room floor, you can see dust particles dancing in the sunlight, and our cat is just laying there, sunbathing. I reach out and point to it, but nobody seems that interested in what the cat is doing. I think they have something else on their minds. 

I am just two years old and such a cute chubby little boy. I know that because its what I hear all the time, especially when we have visitors.

It was always the same. They come into the room and come straight at me and then, "Oh, you are so cute." And I get my cheeks pinched.

 I hate It.   Why do they have to do that? So I cry.

"Oh, there, there, but your cheeks are so chubby.  I could eat them all up."

No, no, I don't want that, they are my cheeks, I want to keep them. So I cry some more. That usually does the trick, and then here comes my sister.

"I am going to tickle you" She holds out her wriggly fingers, and if I were standing up, If I could stand up, I would no doubt be doubled over and rolling on the ground. But I am not. I am a prisoner strapped into my high chair, so I can't climb out. I could climb out. I did it once and got that blood from my nose all over my clean clothes. So now I get strapped in.

I wonder why my family, Mom, Dad, and Sister are looking at me?  Well, they are sort of looking at me. It is more of a half sideways glance, and they are talking. I can't make out what they are saying. Why are they whispering? This can't be good.

there is a loud BANG… BANG. They all look up, and Sister says, "I'll get it," and she leaves the room.

Now I know something is happening. Usually, after that loud banging, somebody leaves the room and then comes back a few minutes later with someone who is not my family.

Mom looks at me and says, "It's the barber he has come to cut your hair. " 

He is going to do WHAT!  Of course, I could not say that. But I understand what cut is. I know what my hair is.  Once My sister cut her finger, and that blood went everywhere.  I can put things together you know!

I have a horrid feeling in my tummy. I definitely feel sick.  I shake my head, and Mom comes to me and releases me from the chair that is my prison, I try to resist.   No, No, I want to stay here, it's safe.  She picks me up and holds me close.

Oh that smell, it's so comforting, wrapped in her arms surely it must be OK

A person comes into the room. See, it always happens. First, a loud banging, and then someone I don't know comes into the room and is probably going to attack me and try to eat my cheeks off.   

He has a little bag. He sets it down on the table and opens it up. Carefully he lays out a comb, scissors, and a brush.  He does not even have hair!  Oh, is that what he is going to do to me. He is going to take all my hair.

I am wriggling in my mom's arms, I have to get away, but she has me held tight

"No, no, I don't want it. 

My mom sets me down on the table, my  legs hanging over the side,  her eyes looking straight at me and says

"Who is going to have their first hair cut today?"

What, am I supposed to guess, are you going to tell me. Pleeease tell me its not me! But she is looking right at me so it must be me.  I imagine blood going everywhere, just like when my sister cut her finger. This is not going to be good. I yell, "Please, no, don't, I don't want it, don't do it."   I know that is what I said, but it came out as a long whining sound like when I hear the cat make that noise when it wants dinner. 

Then this stranger puts his face in mine. Hey there, are you going to be a good boy today?  He has a dark little thin mustache, and I can smell his warm breath. I don't like it and cry some more.

 My mom picks me up, I am being rescued! She takes me across the room and sits in a chair with me firmly in her grip and sitting on her lap. Just as I thought I am safe, mom rescued me.

My hair is blonde.  I have seen it in the mirror, and right on top of my head, I have a curl. My sister often licks her fingers and grasp hold of my hair and curls it some more. The sides are scraggy over my ears, so I guess I am cute.

But here comes that scissor wielding monster with the little thin mustache and warm smelly breath.

My mom has me held tight.

I am wriggling trying to hide in her arms, pressing tight against her, away from him,  seeking her protection

But it may be too late.

I am sad that never again will my sister curl my hair and tell me how cute I am. Does it mean I will now never swim across the sea to find the girls? But its OK.  I never really knew why I would want to anyway

Snip snip snip

It's gone.