by Wayne Rideout

Created on: June 16, 2008

Bad Hair Day

I heard June's voice as soon as I stepped in the door. "Ed, would you come up here and look at this?" I went upstairs, and found my wife, June, examining her sixteen year-old daughter's long dark hair with a stricken look on her face. "Tiffany was sent home from camp because the camp nurse found head lice again," she said. This was bad news because we had thought she was cured a week before she went to church camp. After head washing with medicine, cleaning, washing, and quarantine of all suspect items, we had hoped that the nightmare was over. It was not to be.

June was beside herself. She didn't talk much but her face had the stern quality of a general officer before a major battle. She had talked to everyone she could find about our options for eradicating the pests. The pharmacist told her, helpfully, that if Tiffany's hair were cut short, it would be easier to treat. June called everyone she knew to see who could perform the haircut. No beauty salon in town would touch a person who had active head lice.

With no time to lose, June took the direct approach. "Ed, would you be able to cut Tiffany's hair," she said. "I have never done that in my life, and I just don't know how. Could you do it?" Now, men like a challenge, and I am no exception. If asked to do something that stretches one's capabilities, most men are likely to say "Yes," then figure out later how to actually get it done. But this one had me a little worried. "I have only cut hair for the other men when I was in the army, a long time ago," I hedged. "Can't you try?" she asked. When I saw the look on her face, I could no more have refused than I could have refused orders to land at Normandy. I was hooked.

Tiffany and I went to the kitchen, where I sat her down in a wooden chair with a sheet draped around her neck and shoulders. At this point, I probably need to explain that Tiffany is hyperactive. I mean real, certifiable ADHD. Most of the time she could control herself pretty well, but occasionally she would have a problem. "I'm not a hairdresser," I began, "So I can't guarantee that your hair will be beautiful, but it will be short." I repeated the statement, so that it would sink in. "Okay," said Tiffany "Is this going to look nice when you're done?" That was my first clue that things weren't going as planned.

I picked up my tools, consisting of a pair of sharp scissors, and a comb. Then I grasped a lock of her brunette hair, and estimated where I should make the cut. The scissors

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