Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat –  Mary-Ellen Grisham

April 13, 2006

Invading the Barber Shop
By Mary-Ellen Grisham

     When my son David was born, he had dark blue eyes and brown fuzz for hair.  Within three months, his eyes turned to warm dark brown and his hair was thick platinum blonde.  In the foggy moments of early morning, I can vaguely remember muttering, "Who took my baby?"  Since the rest of him was the same, I didn't file any reports with the police.  Everywhere we two dark brunette parents went with our little cotton-top, we attracted a certain amount of attention.

     My adventures in male hair styling were soon to begin.  David's hair was fine but thick and grew like a weed.  I got quite adept at seating him in the high chair, flinging a small towel around his neck, and giving him a trim.  Almost every session ended in tears, though, because he was wiggly and afraid of the scissors.  He seemed to feel that I was too rough with his ears--especially since I tended to hold on to one or the other to avoid nipping him or to give myself balance.  I would make amends with hugs and kisses and a treat, and really, except for a clump or two here and there, he did look pretty good.

     By the age of three, my miniature blonde Prince Valiant, with mommy's special bowl cut and sumptuous bangs, would have done as a double for a Swedish Buster Brown.  At this point, my husband more or less exploded and put his foot down.  One of his airplane friends, who had been a barber for years, was hauled in, and David had his first professional haircut.  I had to flee to the backyard because I could not stand to watch the mighty machos fleece my little lamb.  With a persimmony smile, I thanked my husband's friend and leaked critical comments the rest of the afternoon.

     While the initial professional styling did not look too bad, my little bald eaglet was never the same again.  To begin with, the baby blonde was mostly gone, and dear David looked like a dish water blonde, more beige by the minute.  My attempts to comb and style his hair daily were a dismal failure, and it was tweeksville all summer!  I just could not get his hair to lie down.  Washing and trimming were even worse.  I just could not follow our friend's act.  By August, the male obligatory tone decreed that I would just have to take David to the barber shop.  "Why me?" I spouted.  It turned out I was the one who was supposed to have the time and the money from my weekly shopping budget.  Hmmmmm.

     After girding up our loins and doing miscellaneous rituals for courage, David and I ventured forth to check out the barber shops.  I had heard my husband mention a small shop close to where he worked, so I thought, small is good--and cozy and friendly.  As we entered the shop, all talking stopped.  The shop was absolutely silent--a clue that we had violated a major folkway.  David and I shuffled over to an empty row of chairs on the far wall and gingerly seated ourselves.  The strained atmosphere was over-whelming.  All together all the men started talking.  We were treated to a virtual performance of tall tales, jokes, local humor, and in-jokes.  David finally got his haircut, and we slunk out.

     The next shop we tried was tiny, almost miniscule, next to a Bible bookstore, and manned by one barber who looked like a cross between an English duke and a Mafia don.  He took forever to cut and style David's hair, and he boasted one main hair style like his own.  I thought of it as the Rudolph Valentino special, slicked gloriously back from the hairline all over the head.  While his own hair was full, gray, and wavy, David's was thin and painfully greased down with no waves at all.  The "Hollywood" haircut was marred by numerous unruly hairs throughout the weeks in between cuts.

     The third shop we tried was large and full of customers.  I was hoping to be obscure and go unnoticed while I hid behind large magazines, leaving David to man the large chair.  No such luck--snickers, significant glances, and a young sporty crowd of men filled the shop.  After two times, the young barber suggested that I have my husband bring David.  When I explained our budget restrictions, his idea was that I should give my husband the money to get D's cut.

     Fortunately for us both, my husband took the hint, and after a search to find a shop that could accommodate them, settled on a small but modern shop in a little town thirty miles north of us.  All has gone well for years, but much to my motherly chagrin, David himself finally settled on the Rudolph Valentino style.  Turns out he loved it--and the old guy who originally selected it for him.  It gives him a certain mature grace and dignity, and I relieve my feelings by calling him "Hollywood" occasionally.  Ah well, what's a mother to do?  Anyway, David always answers that he would rather be Fifth Avenue than Hollywood.  Ah well, what is a mother to do?--yodel snatches of New York, New York throughout her declining years?

(c)Mary-Ellen Grisham
meginrose@charter.net

www.eternal-ink.com
http://www.xulonpress.com/bookstore/titles/1597814938.htm

Occasionally we all try our hand at humor, and though this form may not be our usual type, it is fun to try out the

stand-up comedian routine.  Mary-Ellen is the Editor of Eternal Ink, a twice monthly Christian ezine newsletter.

Her new book, Grace Notes, is available from the Xulon Press site listed above.