During these shades of memorable yesterdays, I believe that all of us boys in our Comodo compound may have had experienced, at least at one time during our shared childhood, a haircut from the mom, the dad or from any elder family member. In my case, our brood of five straight brothers were the unwilling subjects (or rather victims) to my mom’s scissor hands. During those stressful times, I used to think that this chore was actually included in one of the fine-printed parental prerogatives that came with the lifetime contract of being a parent.
In other words, aside from being as official as grounding, it likewise meant that knowledge and technique in cutting hair were not really necessary, as these two automatically fell under the umbrella cover of that 007-licensed word, which is “parenting”. Thankfully though, in all those years that our beloved mom had regularly experimented with our locks, she got really good at it, no kidding, and the later years had been more pleasant for us survivors.
With this positive vibe in mind, I therefore had no qualms at all when both my son and my partner suggested last weekend if I wanted to try trimming their hair. As this enhanced community quarantine had marooned us in our island-home, my thoughts and theirs were undoubtedly in agreement, as both only had two words to say, “no choice”.
My first realization about cutting hair for the first time? I am never ever going to downgrade this skill again as being easy. As a matter of fact, now, all barbers everywhere have earned my utmost respect. While the trimming part alone had almost taken me an hour (and that had just been one side), my mind had raced to thinking that surely for them professionals, everything should have been over thirty minutes earlier.
Making both sides evenly-trimmed and neat have even proven to be more difficult, as I had to struggle with at one time either cutting too close, then at another, as not even hitting the area I had wanted to trim in the first place. During the end part of the sessions (which meant that I surrendered) with my two victims, I feared that had I continued further, my son, for one, would have had to settle for the skinhead style of cut, while my partner would scalp me in my sleep.
In the end, applauding myself for a job oh-well done had been last on my mind, but had I done so, the reason would have to be for the extreme relief that it was all over at last. I cannot even fool and convince myself to believe that, at least, I have finally learned a new skill in this time of quarantine.
Truth was, I had nearly botched it in these first attempts, and although I may have been led to think that it could be a new skill for me, the fact remains that cutting hair is and will always be a long-existing art form when in the deft hands of others.
However, if I still insisted on being loyal to that parental contract that gives me permission to short of scalping my son and matey, I must first accept that even with Goggle training and (mal) practice, it will still take me years to perfect the craft, just like my mom had undergone when it was her turn.
Finally, if ever the time comes when I’m finally good at haircuts but ECQ is still in effect, who is going to cut my hair?
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