The Shave

One Saturday morning when I was about ten years old I casually told my dad that I wanted to shave all my hair off. This was just as he was heading out to the barber for his routine haircut. I am not sure where my mom was when this plan was hatched, but he agreed to take me along. On the way there I envisioned this blissful future where I could spend my Saturdays playing outside instead of bored in a salon waiting for my turn in the braiding chair.  Where my tender head might be brutalized by a heavy handed overworked woman. But mostly time the spent there that was most agonizing. The prospects got better and better as we neared our destination.  Two hours later I stared at my shaven round head in the mirror. I was delighted. I clearly remember the horror on my mother’s face when we returned home. She was furious and chastised my father whose only remark was that it was my choice. I left them squabbling and gleefully run outside to play on my first of many many hair-care-free Saturdays.



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