My 4-year-old has decided that he is going to grow a beard.
He informed me of this fact during his most recent haircut. I was meticulously snipping my way through his precious blonde mane, careful to leave the top a little longer for styling, when I noticed him duck out of the way as I took aim at his sideburns.
“No, Momma!” he protested.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I want to grow a beard! Don’t cut it off!” he scolded.
“Oh,” I replied. “Ok, then I guess you’re all done!”
And with that my little tow head hopped down and trotted off to the bathroom to admire the progress of his beard.
Giving haircuts to my guys over the years has been challenging, rewarding, frightening, haunting and hilarious.
It all started when my husband, who worked from sun up to sun down as a farmer/fireman/rancher/oil producer, found it increasingly more difficult to squeeze in a haircut during his busy days. And when he came to me, desperate, drained and doomed to dreadlocks, I figured any haircut was better than no haircut.
So I bought some clippers and started cutting. For the next few months, my husband really took to his cowboy hat.
And after a long hunting trip in the mountains, he came home looking like Robert Redford in Jeremiah Johnson. I couldn’t decide if I was more excited to see him or some hair on his head!
From that point on, the scruff of his beard remained, and my haircutting skills improved.
And now, as long as I can get my three little braves to hold still long enough, I can usually get a decent cut and even admit to being their barber.
Although sometimes it means trimming their sideburns in their sleep.
I am the official family barber.
And I work from son up to son down. And sometimes after that.