My Family is Hairy

Tags

bad haircut, Donald Trump, Donald Trump's hair, family, genetics, hair, hair loss, haircut, humor

I just finished giving our 19-year-old son a haircut, and I’m struck again by how much hair this kid has.

For those of you wondering, no, I’m not a professional stylist. I don’t even play one on TV, although I’d probably get paid more if I did.

We just look for ways to stay in-budget wherever we can. That’s why I’ve been cutting both my husband’s and our son’s hair for years.

Swipe #1

Our son starts his sophomore year of college next week, and wanted a haircut to get rid of this summer’s growth. It’s more along the lines of trimming a hedge, or mowing a field, because his hair is so thick the clippers sometimes makes this snarly gagging sound when it hits a heavy patch.

So far, the at-home chop jobs have gone fairly well. *Cough* There was that time my husband tossed his head back, laughing at something I said. The clippers ran a bit amok, leaving him with a little wonky *cough* indentation at his hairline.

Or the time I ever so slightly nicked my son’s ear, a fact he insists on bringing up every time I get the clipper box out.

Or the time I misjudged the snap-on comb length, and he ended up with what I generously called his Modified Buzz Cut. it was summer, so it worked. Mostly.

I think I see a tail…

But still, every time I give our son a haircut, there’s so much hair laying around that it looks like a small footless mammal slunk into the house and died on the floor.

He gets this from my side of the family. There aren’t any comb-overs at our holiday gatherings. No shiny spots. No widow’s peaks. We’re a hairy bunch.

I can basically count on the fact that anyone who has the telltale dark-hair-dark-eyes combo from my grandpa’s side of the family also has hair that grows like a Chia pet’s.

This was brought home the last time I got a haircut. For obvious reasons, I don’t take the clippers to my own head. I save that for less fortunate family members. I go to the salon once a month for a trim, but my stylist is trying to convince me to come in more often.

She ran her hand through my hair and got it stuck somewhere along the top. “Jeez,” she said. “You have a lot of hair. Are you sure we shouldn’t thin it out?”

I wear my hair like a Girl Scout merit badge. It took me years to get it like this, and I shudder at suggestions that it be less than its full glory. I have friends who complain about hair loss, who are afraid that someday soon, they’ll be embracing The Donald or some such version of an awkward combover.

In the meantime, the home chop jobs will continue. And I’ll remain thankful that in a world of Rogaine, bad comb-overs, and thinning hair, I come from a hairy family.