By Carol Murphy

My son was born with a head of hair that took over his whole face. He was also squishy looking because of the effort he had to put in to arrive. In fact, my mother’s first act when she saw him was to turn away in tears because she thought there was something awfully wrong with her first grandchild. In her day, women were put to sleep and when they woke up, there was a cute little bundle of joy, not the hairy pruneface she saw when she looked in the nursery window at Ryan.

Anyway, he had a grand head of hair. As he grew, his hair was a constant source of comments from friends, family, and sometimes even strangers. People I didn’t know would see him in his stroller and make comments like, “Boy, when you get that cut, I hope I’m there.” Or, they would sing a bar or two from the play, Hair!, or ask, “Is this a boy or a girl?”

One person in the family liked his hair. My father’s mother had hair she could sit on and she would make a big deal out of braiding it and then winding it around her head like a crown. She always maintained that Ryan took after her, although she would often forget his name. She’d inevitably ask, “How’s his hair?” using the pronoun “his” instead of his name. “Ryan,” I would counter. “His name is Ryan, Nana.”

“Sure it is, honey. How’s his hair?”

“Just the same. I’ll let you know when I cut it.”

The rest of the family had formed a consensus that I should cut it, because, well, after all, he had so much. Of course, that was the issue-when were we going to cut Ryan’s hair? I knew it was their opinion because at family gatherings there were comments like, “Boy, it’s getting long!” or “You should see the cute little boy’s haircut I saw on a kid about Ryan’s age.” It was really annoying.

Even though I loved his hair, the day did come when even I knew it had to be cut. My husband decided that I should go to a barber shop in a nearby town, owned by a barber he had once played golf with, since in his opinion a golf game was the ultimate test of everyone’s character and ability. So, I put Ryan in the car seat and took myself a good book and off we went.

It was an old-fashioned barber shop with the striped light out front and several chairs inside all filled with men getting haircuts or shaves. I looked at Ryan’s hair one last time, letting the beauty of it sink into my mother’s memory bank, and put him in the chair.

“How do you want it cut?” the barber asked.

“My husband said to tell you a regular boy’s haircut.” I wished I had brought a camera. His hair was a beautiful chestnut brown, wavy and thick. I got a little teary, but I was resolute. He needed to look like a growing boy. But, to avoid watching it being cut, I did have the book to read. That was my mistake.

After several minutes the barber asked, “Well, what do you think?” I looked up to see a miniature soldier sitting there in that big chair. He had no hair! His tiny toddler head had been shaved! All of his wonderful hair was on the floor! I was horrified.

“What did you do? You cut off all his hair! There’s nothing left! He’s bald!” And I jumped out of my chair, threw money on the counter, grabbed Ryan, and ran sobbing from the shop with several pairs of bewildered eyes staring at me.

Ryan fell asleep in the car riding home, looking like a miniature Telly Savalas. (If you don’t know who he was, just think of a wrestler with a hairless head.) However, his hair, or the lack of it, did not bother him in the slightest, although, now that I look back, perhaps he was in as much shock as I was and had passed out from the stress. I would have thought he might be cold or get some virus with no hair to cover his poor little head.

In any event, it was amazing I even made it home in one piece because I cried all the way. Ryan was still asleep in the car when my husband Bill came home and asked right away, “How’s he look?”

But, he saw my tear-streaked face and said much more grimly, “Where is he?”

“In the car,” I sniffled.

He determinedly walked out of the kitchen and through the connecting garage door, but immediately stomped back. “I’m going to see that barber.”

The part I have to tell next is hearsay because it came from my husband. But, as he tells it, he walked into that barber shop with the car parked for a quick getaway. “Who the hell cut my son’s hair?” he demanded. All the patrons looked up. One barber with a straight razor in his hand said, “I did.”

“I want my money back!” my husband demanded. “I haven’t seen anything like that since I saw a new recruit leaving Fort Ord!”

“No way!” retorted the owner, who had to stand his ground with all his patrons looking.

As Bill tells it, he just happened to be standing next to a bookcase where someone had displayed sale pottery. He looked at an ashtray nearest to him, picked it up, and threw it to the floor, where it broke into bits, saying something like, “Well, that’s the haircut!”

But no one moved. I guess they were all in some kind of daze.

So he picked up another ashtray and yelled, “And that’s the tip!”, running out the door to make that fast getaway.

I later pictured the scene almost like a Keystone Cops movie in which the barber and all the men ran chasing after him as he ran down the street to his car, the car tearing out and rushing to the freeway. I have a vivid imagination.

Just as my mother was driving up to come over to see the haircut, Bill was getting home, screeching into the driveway. It would take years for them to begin to appreciate their shared characteristics, and this day was way before that happened. So, my mother just frowned at my husband as they both walked up the steps. “Well, I took care of that!” Bill announced as he flew in.

My mother could be diplomatic when necessary, so all she said was, “I came to see Ryan’s new haircut.” Funny thing was, she liked it. “He looks like a little soldier,” she babbled sweetly at Ryan when he toddled in.

“That’s what I said to the barber,” I replied quietly. I knew better than to dwell on this too long with Bill still fuming and my mother still cooing.

But that’s not the end of the story.

Several months later, Bill and I with Ryan in tow, were shopping in Sears when way over in the large appliance section Bill spotted a man he knew and waved. “Hey, I know that guy,” he said, all smiles. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Bill thinks he knows everyone from golfing with them, seeing them at the golf course, or hitting golf balls. This time that was only half true.

When we got close, Bill said in a much lower tone, “Hey, I know you!” Guess he realized a little too late that the man wasn’t a fellow golf buddy-at least, not anymore.

All the guy said was, “How’s his haircut now?” It was THE barber! And he was laughing.

I started pulling Bill away as the barber’s laugh seemed to echo throughout Sears. We weren’t even close to the getaway car.

But that’s not the end of the story either.

Several years later when Ryan was in college, I was eating lunch in the teacher’s room of one of my schools when the subject of haircuts came up. “Boy, have I got a story for you!” I said and I proceeded to tell the story. All the male custodians and teachers listened in rapt attention until the very end when one of them said, matter of factly, “So that was YOUR husband?”

“You were THERE?” I stuttered.

“We wondered about him. We talked about him for years! So, how’s Ryan’s hair now?”

The world is small even when it comes to haircuts.

* * *

Carol Murphy is a Speech-Language Pathologist who currently is supervising graduate students in Monterey County. She lives in Santa Cruz County with her husband and an English bulldog and two horses.