I got my hair cut today. Randy is my barber. He is about my age. We talk about sports and local news. It is usually uneventful.
There was a young teenage boy in the next chair. I learned, from eavesdropping, that he is in 8th grade.
Personally, I don’t recall ever crying in the barber chair, or at all as an 8th grader, so I had zero empathy when that 8th grader had a hissy fit.
Apparently, his haircut was not turning out as he wanted. I could tell because he said that was not what he wanted, threw down the cloth thing they put around your shoulders to keep the hair clippings off your clothes, got up literally crying, and went outside, followed by his mother and the lady cutting his hair, who attempted to placate him, one of them bringing him water.
Randy and I shook our respective heads with shared disgust.
The placating was “successful” (although not something that would be my goal as his parent) so he returned to the chair.
The young lady to whose chair he returned asked if he was okay when he continued to pout. She asked if he wanted to go wipe his teary eyes in the bathroom, an idea that he rejected.
Instead, the misunderstood teen shouted that she “did not understand” his feelings.
Neither do I. Neither does Randy. Join the club.
His mother understood that her son’s needs were not being adequately met. She agreed that he could have his hair dyed. That is a great idea, because a thirteen year old with an earring looks stupid without dyed hair.
So, after his unsatisfactory haircut, the stylist/colorist mixed up the old dye pot and brushed a potion on the top of the kid’s head.
I probably hurt the sensitive young man’s feelings when I joked with Randy that I wondered if I needed highlights in my naturally whitened hair. Randy did not think I needed any highlights. I take that to mean that my hair is such a beautiful color that is impossible to improve upon.
The crybaby’s mother brought to his chair a book for him to read while waiting for the dye to kick in.
I hope the hair dye cheered him up. I got a feeling that he is going to have much more to cry about when Mom isn’t around to respond to life’s disappointments.
I fear the kid has been spoiled. That isn’t all his fault.
Somebody should have told him long before now that big boys don’t cry and that crying to get your way won’t work. It is getting almost too late to teach him what most of us learned at age two.
But there is still hope. Maybe he will join the Marine Corps someday. They provide haircuts without a guy’s mother butting in.
Shootin' the Breeze
The Haircut
I got my hair cut today. Randy is my barber. He is about my age. We talk about sports and local news. It is usually uneventful.
There was a young teenage boy in the next chair. I learned, from eavesdropping, that he is in 8th grade.
Personally, I don’t recall ever crying in the barber chair, or at all as an 8th grader, so I had zero empathy when that 8th grader had a hissy fit.
Apparently, his haircut was not turning out as he wanted. I could tell because he said that was not what he wanted, threw down the cloth thing they put around your shoulders to keep the hair clippings off your clothes, got up literally crying, and went outside, followed by his mother and the lady cutting his hair, who attempted to placate him, one of them bringing him water.
Randy and I shook our respective heads with shared disgust.
The placating was “successful” (although not something that would be my goal as his parent) so he returned to the chair.
The young lady to whose chair he returned asked if he was okay when he continued to pout. She asked if he wanted to go wipe his teary eyes in the bathroom, an idea that he rejected.
Instead, the misunderstood teen shouted that she “did not understand” his feelings.
Neither do I. Neither does Randy. Join the club.
His mother understood that her son’s needs were not being adequately met. She agreed that he could have his hair dyed. That is a great idea, because a thirteen year old with an earring looks stupid without dyed hair.
So, after his unsatisfactory haircut, the stylist/colorist mixed up the old dye pot and brushed a potion on the top of the kid’s head.
I probably hurt the sensitive young man’s feelings when I joked with Randy that I wondered if I needed highlights in my naturally whitened hair. Randy did not think I needed any highlights. I take that to mean that my hair is such a beautiful color that is impossible to improve upon.
The crybaby’s mother brought to his chair a book for him to read while waiting for the dye to kick in.
I hope the hair dye cheered him up. I got a feeling that he is going to have much more to cry about when Mom isn’t around to respond to life’s disappointments.
I fear the kid has been spoiled. That isn’t all his fault.
Somebody should have told him long before now that big boys don’t cry and that crying to get your way won’t work. It is getting almost too late to teach him what most of us learned at age two.
But there is still hope. Maybe he will join the Marine Corps someday. They provide haircuts without a guy’s mother butting in.