While the kids ate their breakfast waffles--well, Stella did most of the eating--and sticking her plate and syrup-laden waffle bites on her hair--I casually suggested that we go get Heath's haircut this morning. I fully expected him to say no, and another day would pass by, closer to Heath beginning his school year wearing a hair barrette to get it out of his eyes. But he surprised me with an eager and enthusiastic yes.
Silly me expected a quiet (other than the volume from my two noise-makers), no-wait visit to one of the local kid's salons. Surely no one is getting a haircut on a Tuesday morning, not to mention the fact that public school is back in session. The beloved Jeep should be ready to hop on, watch a little movie, get a trim, hop off, and done. I was wrong.
Very wrong. Apparently every 18 month old in Charlotte needed to get their hair trimmed. Many of them for the first time. Many of them really not wanting to have some stranger invading their personal space with a sharp knife-looking thingy. It was loud. There was going to be a wait. And there was no way I was turning back on taking care of this errand.
Fortunately for us, we were able to squeeze into a small space and wait on the unoccupied red motorcycle. Babies getting their haircut can't sit on the motorcycle--apparently they don't have the neck and back control to lean into the ride. So Heath sat on the bike and watched, A Bug's Life, and patiently waited his turn.
Stella, on the other hand, busied herself with removing hair bows from their display area and puzzles that were out for purchase only. I kept staring at her hair that has a certain business in the front, party in the back quality to it and wondered if I should take the plunge and have them shape her up, too. But I didn't have my camera, and it seemed impulsive (not that I'm by any means beyond impulsiveness), so I decided to wait.
When it was Heath's turn, he was a good sport about not getting to sit in the Jeep. He'd actually grown quite fond of his red motorcycle, so he stayed put and let the lady get to snipping. As soon as she started, the movie went off, and Looney Tunes came on.
I grew up on Looney Tunes and have very concrete, fond memories of watching their antics on Saturday morning. I was a huge Bugs Bunny fan, and Foghorn Leghorn's good ole boy accent delighted me to the core. I'm pretty sure most of their capers went right over my head, but I have a clear picture of being little and cackling at the physical comedy.
The episode being shown to all the toddlers and lone preschooler today showcased Sylvester the Cat and Tweety Bird. Sylvester the Cat was trying to catch Tweety Bird. (Imagine that.) In an effort to eat the tasty canary, the cat stopped at nothing. He painted his finger yellow, gave it sweet little eyes, and pranced his digit about in hopes of enticing the bird to come close to a female mate. Confusion set in, Sylvester attempts to take a chomp out of Tweety. Uh-oh! It's his own finger. Blood everywhere.
If that's not enough, there's dynamite. Baseball bat head beatings. Limb cutting, exposing kitty cat skeleton. As Heath has his hair trimmed, I watch him take every piece of crazy, unrealistic, fantastical, VIOLENT, bloody, totally non-friendly tidbits and commit them to memory. He has no idea that the lady is cutting his hair. He doesn't hear us when we tell him she's finished and it's time to go. I ask him to say thank you, and he's glued, GLUED to the TV screen. I offer a lollipop. Nothing. He's gone.
I pay for the cut, shuffle us out, and wonder if I should go back to a place that actually finds Looney Tunes an appropriate show for their clientele. But I remember, I watched all those episodes when I was Heath's age, maybe even younger. Plus, the lady did a nice job on Heath's hair.
Guess I'll just have to hide our dynamite until he's forgotten all about the wacky feline/bird shenanigans he absorbed while getting his hair out of his eyes. But I am considering giving Heath a baseball bat and my Vivitar camera, and let the bludgeoning commence. (Post-cut pix are a blurry mess.)
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