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 made a snicking sound as three inches of hair fell to the floor. Tiffany began to wiggle in the chair. I pulled up another lock of hair, and made a second cut. Tiffany became obviously distraught, and her body wiggled uncontrollably. As I picked up the third lock, she bolted from the chair, strewing hair and sheet behind her. She ran to the hallway mirror, took one look, and let out a blood-curdling scream. The color drained from my face, as I stood with the scissors still in my hand, knowing that this simple exercise had gone impossibly bad. Tiffany tore out the front door and ran screaming into the front yard. She circled the house, yelling and cursing. I had visions of answering the door one day to find a lady with a county ID badge, from Children and Youth, who had some questions to ask me about my stepdaughter. Neighbors told us later that they heard all the commotion, but figured we had things in hand at our house.
I retreated, a beaten man. June came down the stairs with a puzzled look on her face. "What is going on?" she asked. I looked straight at her and said "If I ever show any inclination to do anything like this, ever again, would you please just throw a brick at me instead?" Well, eventually we called Bob, Tiffany's father to get her calmed down. To his credit, he handled it really well. They both went for ice cream, and when they returned, Tiffany apologized to me.
Two weeks later, she still had a visible gap in the back of her hair do, but she had gotten used to it. One evening I took her to the CD store at the mall, as she had asked. When we got to the store, there were multitudes of youngsters hanging out. One lad, with a purple Mohawk walked in the door ahead of us. I finally heaved a sigh of relief knowing that she would never stand out in this crowd.