The Little Dutch Boy

In my frantic rush to get ready for Florida I need to find time to get my kid's hair cut. I made an appointment for Max. Carter has decided that cutting her hair is not happening anytime in the near future. I told her as long as she agrees to keep it out of her face I was okay with that decision. Secretly I was pleased she had come to this decision. The last time we were at the hairdressers I was sickened to realize that she has officially moved into the $25 category for children's haircuts. That is almost a pedicure. For $3.99 I can get her a pack of ponytail holders and tell everyone she wants headbands for her birthday. Evil, yes. But something has to give and it is not going to be my poor feet.

I was telling Jamie about the bump in the hair category and he was horrified that we would have to pay that much to get her hair trimmed for future cuts. He wondered aloud if one was still able to purchase a Flowbee. I am focused on my need for the Sham-Wow at this point of my life. I have no time to look out for a Flowbee. I just want to scour outdoor marketplaces and home shows for a great Sham-Wow demonstration so I can meet the Sham-Wow guy. I used to want to meet Billy Mays, but he lost me with the burger maker. When I do get my Sham-Wow order I am going to send one of the shams to Dave. You get 4 for $19.95. I will send him one. Surely I don't need more than three. He can use the one I send him to mop up his applause for "Her First Anal Examination".

I was trying to remember how much we paid for haircuts when we were kids. I was having the hardest time trying to picture even walking into a hair salon anytime prior to the age of 14. The more I thought about it the more I realized that I had no memory of it simply because it never happened. My mother would take my sister and I over to my Aunt Ann and she would cut our hair. "Oh, was Ann a hairdresser?" you ask. No. She was a school teacher. Somehow she and my mother orchestrated this facade of hair professionalism that took place in the cramped 1st floor bathroom at my grandmother's house. My sister and I would sit perched on the counter with an old towel clipped around our neck. Ann would take out the tools necessary for our transformation. Scotch tape and scissors. She would stretch the length of tape across our bangs to guide her precise moves. We'd sit as our helmet was created, framing our face in a perfectly square curtain.

I can vividly recall in 1977 when I went to my Grandmother's and announced to Ann that I wanted a very special haircut. The Dorothy Hamil. If you don't know what that haircut is than you should not be reading this blog. Off with you now- go! Grab yourself a Gogurt and go check out Club Penguin.

Ann took the picture I had carefully clipped out and said she would be happy to do this. She ripped off an extra strip of scotch tape and tapped Dorothy to the bathroom mirror to guide her. She snipped away. Fingers flying, scotch tape residue clinging to my cheeks. I was going to pee myself I was so excited. I was convinced I was going to walk out of my Grandmother's and skate the rest of the way home. All I needed was a Fair Isle sweater and a ticket to the Ice Capades. Sadly, the reality did not match the snowflake-filled fantasy. I could not skate, and my hair looked nothing like Ms. Hamil's. It was a botched mess. To further amplify my pain my Mother decided it would be an excellent time to introduce orthotics to my footwear collection. Special shoes and special hair. A Flowbee would have been a Godsend for me in '77. Anything to save me from my bargain cuts by the bathroom sink.