The Haircut

Written March 31, 1998

Ever since my brother's razor broke, I've been elected to cut his bristly hair. Jon prefers it just long enough so I nip my fingers if I don't pay attention. He also prefers me to come over to my mother's house - where he still lives - to cut it. He sits on a kitchen chair while I stand behind him. The kid is over six feet tall and at 13 has just finally stopped with his growth spurts.
"Just the sides and back," he instructs.
I've long since given up trying to figure this kid out. He likes to style the top of his head into ridiculous porcupine spikes. He gels it up right out of the shower and hairsprays it enough to stay all week. He used to dye his hair blond to contrast with his almost black roots but his hair grew out too fast. I couldn't understand the purpose of dying it when it would be cut off in two weeks. It's not like it matters what his hair looks like - he keeps it under his Gilligan hat or his 69 woolen cap.
"Okay, okay," he warns when he feels I've spent too much time on one side.
I tell him I'm just working out a curl. When he was younger, it was all blond curls - he was accused of being the fourth daughter. He refuses to grow it out more than an inch, or he'd be walking around with a dark brown Afro of tight curls.
I ask him what time practice is tonight because I'm his ride, and he's my son's babysitter afterwards. My husband works second shift at HUSCO, and although that alone could support us, I have a night job vacuuming offices from 5 till 8:30 while Jon watches Chuck. Tonight, however, I'll need to go in late.
"5:30, cuz we don't have to share the gym with the B team."
If the two teams had to practice together, I'd be dropping him off a half-hour earlier. He'd also come home in a darker mood because the B team wasn't quite as good - his coach would need to yell and probably make them run a few laps for doing so poorly. He'd like to think he's the star, and I'd hate to stroke his ego by actually acknowledging how good he is. He dwarfs the competition by about six inches and averages 25 points per game when he's only allowed to play for 2 quarters - so they don't humiliate the opposing team. He doesn't need to be good when he has height advantage.
I ask him if it's at Whittier. Their school doesn't have a gym yet so they trade off between two elementary schools. Whittier's a little farther away.
"Ya," he says, too smart to nod his head.
He turns down his ear so I can finish up his left side. Tucked behind his ears, the curls grow fastest here. It takes a little more skill to cut these shorter curls away without snipping a finger.
"Shit!" Too much careless thought has let me clip my left knuckle on my pointer finger but not quite enough to make it bleed. I shake my finger and my head - not quite believing I did it again. I manage to do it once a haircut.
Only the back to do now. The back takes less time because it's not quite as thick and curly. I also don't need to waste time pinching the hair between my fingers - I can just slide a finger underneath and cut.
Jon begins to squirm from all the hair that has managed to fall down into his shirt. I only have time to ask one more question - "Babysitting here or over at the apartment?"
I finally moved out into an apartment with my husband, who happens to be a video game freak. My brother prefers to go over there for three full hours of mindless gaming. My brother shares the red beanbag with my one-year-old son who's completely mesmerized by the action on the screen. Occasionally Chuck makes a grab for the controller, but my brother is prepared and usually dodges the pudgy little hand. Most nights I come home to a content baby, but every once in a while Jon will ignore a dirty diaper or "forget" to feed him.
As Jon stands to brush himself off, he tells me he'll watch Chuck over there. He heads to the bathroom to take a shower.
"Practice ends at seven," I hear shouted from behind a closed door.