I remember the first time I got a haircut.
My Grandfather picked me up and told my mom we would be back in about an hour. He took me to the local barber shop and told the barber that I needed a trim. He said I had to have hair taken off the back, and he had to lower the ears. I was upset when I heard the clicking of the scissors as he ran the comb through my hair. He then turned on something that buzzed loudly, and I could assume the tickle on my neck. Then there was a bit of a scratch as he bruised the hair off my neck. I remember how he detached the wrap with a flourish and whipped me around to look in the mirror. The barber had detached all the golden curls my mom would proudly show off to all his friends. When we left the barber shop, my Grandfather took me to the candy store and bought me a milkshake. That was a memory that stuck with me for the last thirty years. It seemed like going to the barber was a rite of passage into growing up. You got your first hairsplit and all the curls of childhood were gone forever. Last week, my kid asked me to take his to the barbershop. She wanted to remove his curls from childhood. She showed me this rather cute hairsplit that was a short bob, and he wanted to go to the barber shop. I wasn’t sure a barber could do this haircut, however I knew my beautician could do a great work. I told his a beautician was just a boy barber.