The Reader - Telegraph Journal: How We Live  As published on page 3 on June 11, 2005   Just a hair shy - I thought I did a great job cutting my son's hair - so long as he likes the 'topiary' look By Carla Gunn

My twelve-year-old hates going to the hairdresser for a number of reasons. First of all, they usually put pink clips in his hair. He wishes they could come up with a more dignified way of sectioning. Second, he questions the cleanliness of the combs and scissors and, despite the jars of disinfectant on the counters, suspiciously eyes the hair of the client who precedes him for unnatural movement. Third, he dislikes making small chat. It's bad enough he has to answer his mother's questions every day, let alone those of a complete stranger. 

Nevertheless, every few months I just can't stand it any longer. I have no problem with his hair being long in the back - he's got a beautiful head of hair of which I'm quite envious - but when he's studying or reading or playing with knives, I like to know for sure that his eyes are open.  However, judging from his reaction to the idea of a haircut, you'd think I'd just informed him that I was sending him off to finishing school.

So last month I gave him a choice: a) he goes to the hairdresser; b) I cut his hair for him; or c) he continues to work on his Weirdly Gruesome look but loses his computer privileges.  Clearly, I had underestimated his emotion on this issue because, sighing, he sat down and offered me his head.

Dumbfounded, I draped a towel over his shoulders and glanced at the scissors. Luckily, I have the barber's kind. The curved cuticle ones may be adequate for trimming bangs but likely not this. I looked at him trying to emanate the nonchalance I was just a hair shy of feeling. Then I picked up the scissors. 

I know that this sounds like blaming the victim but, in my defence, there were early warning signs that my son should have picked up on. I have two very salient personality characteristics. One is what I like to call happy-go-luckiness but is popularly known as carelessness. He should have identified this the day I decided to tweeze my eyebrows. The naked mole rat look isn't exactly nondescript. The blue paint slopped on the ceiling and on the flush and all over the baseboard heaters should have served as another clue that careful, precise work is not exactly my forte.  

My second well-known characteristic is confidence, or what others call "delusions of grandeur." There's an episode of Keeping Up Appearances in which Hyacinth Bucket, who had never been on a horse, leads acquaintances to believe she is somewhat of an equestrian. When invited to ride at their ranch, an unfazed Hyacinth comments, "Well, maybe I can ride. How would I know - I've never tried." In my case, I thought that I may be a yet undiscovered Edward Scissorhands. How would I know for sure? I've never tried. Well . . . except on my dolls. But that was a long time ago, so I quickly pushed that memory back down where it belongs. 

I started off slowly. I cut just a smidgen off his bangs. The fact that I poked him with the scissors got completely blown out of proportion. He complained that I cut him. I told him that unless I drew blood, it wasn't technically a cut. He informed me that if I made him bleed I would have to pay damages. Confident of my abilities, I agreed. Then I nicked him again. He told me that I should advertise my services as "The Bloody Barber." I told him that that's actually where the barber sign originated - barbers once doubled as blood-letters. The barber pole is symbolic of blood running down an arm. He eyed me suspiciously but sat very, very still.  

After getting his bangs (more or less) even, I started on the sides and back. That went really quickly. If he tilts his head slightly to the left, no one will be able to tell that one side is shorter than the other. In hindsight, I should have stopped there. But it was a lot of fun, and I was feeling fairly confident that I might have missed my real calling in life.  

So I started layering his thick hair. I took large sections of it and cut straight across. I repeated this about two or three times on each side of his head and maybe a half dozen times in the back. The end effect somewhat resembled topiary. But I thought it looked quite good - certainly an improvement. I stopped cutting when my son looked down at the pile of hair on the floor and became a little alarmed. I calmly assured him that he looked great. I urged him to look in the mirror. He was actually quite pleased. Coincidentally, I didn't have a second mirror handy, so unlike at the real barbershop, he didn't inspect the back of his head.  

I may still be entertaining the idea of opening a neighbourhood barbershop if it weren't for a couple of incidents. One was the reaction I got when I asked my younger son if he would like me to cut his hair next. A look of horror swept across his face and he replied, "Umm . . . no, Mom, I think I'd prefer the hairdresser."  But this on its own wasn't enough to dampen my enthusiasm. What do kids know really? I then asked my mother what she thought. "Well . . . it's different . . ." she said.

But the point at which I questioned my abilities was when my friend dropped in for a visit. She looked at my son, at me, at my son, at me, then rolled her eyes and shook her head in silent admonishment. 

Now I'm in a bind. Although in my opinion, my son's haircut looks just fine, there doesn't seem to be consensus on this issue. I don't want to undermine his confidence in me but, in all good conscience, I likely should convince him to visit a trained professional. However, I may be able to convince his hairdresser to do without the clips. After all, in my experience, they're really not necessary. 

Carla Gunn lives in Fredericton and can be reached at cgunn@nb.sympatico.ca .