The haircut is...uneven in spots. Every spot. Which is its most compelling reason to be. It does fascinate. How can a haircut be so...off?Born out of a Thursday night panic (the boy had vehemently protested its length), the mother snatched a pair of gleaming shears from her sewing table. Clip-snip, clip-snip. That should do it!
Thus ill-advised, both got what they bargained for.
Is he Beatle, cosmonaut, or monk? All seem apt. But, underneath this tattered lid, he is my boy. Same as before. And as I seek a Sunday mini-mall remedy, I find myself loving him and everything about this vain mishap, more.
Passing the salon banged, the deliberately unkempt, the pop-star star shag, and those bible-school idealists...I stop. Wait. Pray.
He pauses and turns, curious.
There!
Another stray lock taunts us both.
And I bow to the friar.
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