Hippy Hair

At long last, Kid had his hair cut last night. Three days earlier, he was pushing his breeze-tossed locks (like that? thanks!) off his forehead on an Oregon beach, there was sand on his knees, animal tattoos on every conceivable surface, small sea stones in his pockets. This morning, he went to school looking like a tiny commodities trader: corporate hair, squeaky clean face, no tats, no breeze, sensible shoes.

Something has been lost.

And he knew it. His distress in front of the mirror had less to do with being able to see from under his bangs than what he could see from under his bangs. A long life of not living on the beach, not being sprung from school, not having rootbeer and fries for lunch three days running. A long, sensible life of eating his vegetables, doing homework, ringing the achievement test bells, and speaking politely to his parents.

I don't think I have the heart to ever take him to the barber again.