Lollipop Bribes

Thank god for lollipops. The ever knowledgeable hair stylist knows how to stock their hair salon with the necessary bribe to ensure a 15 minute calm chair presence of a 6-year-old.

My third son has, I believe, suffered the most through his six years of haircuts. We have tried bringing the Thomas the Tank Engine on portable CD player into the salon to distract. We had tried outright bullying and threatening – definitely didn’t work. We have tried hand restraining. We have tried to have him sit on my knee while he has his hair cut which I must say was certainly not enjoyable for me as I ended up swallowing his curls.

Now as I sit and watch his umpteenth hair cut, in the past four and a half minutes he has managed to ask at least 27 times if the hair stylist was done yet. He has his eyes squeezed closed except for the occasional glance toward the lollipop drawer. Despite having dressed, bathed, fed and loved this child for six years, I have yet to mange to brush his hair. He simply runs away and being a skinny torpedo of little knobby kneed boy, I can never catch him if he doesn’t want to get caught. I have never managed to wash his hair in the bath without screams and fits and exasperated exclamations of “MOM.”

For the past few months he has managed to sit relatively calmly at this salon. I remember his first time here. My son calmly leant his head into the bosom of the hair dresser and almost fell asleep as she cut the back of his hair. I never thought of the old bosom trick but it did make our first official visit here a dreamy affair.

He doesn’t yet think his hair is cool or cute. He has adorable out-of-control curls with a shine that the most expensive hair products could never replicate in my hair. I occasionally send emails to his teacher at Rockwell school apologizing for the fact that his curly hair is officially “a bird’s nest” but I usually try and delay cutting it because I think it so heavenly boyish and fun.

He is busy telling the hair stylist right now about the last episode of Sponge bob in between bursts of “done yet.” He’s describing his latest win on Angry Birds. He’s tickling his nose. He’s asking to see the comb and is looking a little terrified when he feels the scissors near his ear.

I guess to a 6-year-old it is a rather traumatic experience to be assaulted by someone with a noisy hair dryer and a sharp scissors as I repeatedly tell him to relax and enjoy. There is a paradox there.

He likes the smell of the "goop” that is being put in his hair. It’s his treat. Today he will look like a Mohawk with a big spike in the middle. With the recent monsoon season that has hit Bethel, our back yard is a big mud pit and his hair will be completely filthy and sweaty in about 5 minutes after we return home.

I do not hesitate to take a photo of my smart, well coiffed son because of the sheer novelty of the experience. He’s all spruced up!

“Can I get my lollipop now?”

Yes, love.

“Can I get two?”

No love.