Haircut day is the bane of my existence. The stuff nightmares are made of, that humiliating (and deafening) experience involving a wailing toddler sitting atop my knees, his head spinning from side to side Exorcist style, his hands swatting away the stylist’s clippers, his mouth a sticky mess of Mentos and clumped together blonde baby hair. His baby sister sitting in her pram doing her best WTF face, his four year old brother repeatedly protesting against his own imminent haircut. Of course it’s always on a weekday morning so there’s always a couple of Ladies of Leisure having their perms set, peering disapprovingly over at the circus that is my life, which is disrupting their salon experience. All the while I’m guessing at their thoughts, probably along the lines of “That poor young mother, she mustn’t know how to stop having babies”. I fight the urge to tell them we’re just Catholic, and then silently congratulate myself that I’m not pregnant. Yet.
It’s even got to the point where I’ve left about 12 weeks between trims and told Preschool Daddy we’re “growing Bug’s hair out” in a surfie, Elle-Macpherson’s-kid-kinda-way. Only that didn’t quite pan out. He ended up looking a little less celeb-bebe and a little more neglectaroony.
Meanwhile, this is what’s going on in Buggy’s toddler mind:
Oh my God an atrocity has been done to me! A woman with scissors has cut off my golden blond locks and they’re now laying all over the floor of her shop. And now another one is sweeping them up! What the hell do you think you’re doing, lady? Where are you taking my beautiful hair??? You will pay for this!
No babycino bribery can compensate my loss. My haircut’s not finished but I will now proceed to straighten my legs, slide out of my chair, flop to the floor and roll around trying to scoop up my wisps of hair before they’re gone forever.
The hairdresser will refuse to continue. I’ll still have to pay. About $38 for the
privilege ordeal. Not that I’m counting, or anything.
I’ll then pretend that the half-shaved, half-trimmed, under-cut/mullet/frullet ‘do is a trend statement for the next few weeks until it grows out a bit and people stop commenting.
Er, I don’t think so. After doing this crap for about a year, I discovered what my husband and I now affectionately call “a haircut in a box”, which I think could be one of the best reasons to visit Sunnybank (apart from the awesome Asian food, that is). You simply feed a $10 note into a machine, grab a ticket, get into the box and come out with a haircut. Okay, it’s not really a box, it’s a little tiny salon. The stylists are hairdressers and they’re good at what they do. They have screens showing retro cartoons to distract the children, and capes that look like superheroes’. The one we visit even has a seat shaped like a little Ferrari that the toddler can sit in while the hairdresser efficiently cuts his hair. $20 + twenty minutes = two happy, spunky little boys with stylish dos. Kerching!
So go find somewhere that does cheapo (decent) haircuts and take a number.
And after that, reward yourself with a cappuccino/stiff drink, mark the calendar for six weeks’ time, and enjoy every harmonious minute in the interim.