Puddintopia

In keeping with our new-found frugality, the puddinette and I have been discussing for weeks the possible option of self-styling the hair of sons 1 and 2. For reasons that still defy understanding, she planted her foot squarely against allowing me within 15 feet of my 3 year-old pink-and-lace-loving daughter with a pair of scissors. On the topic of home barbering the older boys’ hair, though, she was at least open to discussion.

As the need for haircuts drew near, I convinced her that I knew exactly what I was doing and was confident in my ability to minimize the potential damage to the hair of two male children, ages 6 and 5. In the back of my mind, of course, was the realization that in the absolute worst case, I could always shave their heads completely (to “even things up”, you see). I also might have neglected to mention during our negotiations that my only previous attempt at hair clipping took place under the influence of a six-pack of Sam Adams with an appreciative member of my former hockey team, who, (I have since been assured) thoroughly enjoyed appearing to have a monk’s bowl-like tonsure.

I think what really turned the discussion in my favor was when the puddinette realized that a) clippers could be acquired for the price of one haircut for both of the boys, and b) even if we never attempted it again, someday her wonderful husband will need to give up on the mirage that he still has enough hair to warrant paying good money to the nice girls at the local sports-themed, male-centric trim shop. When that day comes, the clippers will meet my scalp, and forever hence forth, I will be one among The Shaven. Thus, having a set of clippers isn’t exactly a bad investment; that day *is* coming, and it is inevitable.

So yesterday, after the puddinette left on the weekly grocery trek, I summoned both boys into the garage, shiny new clippers gripped tightly in my sweating palm. Thankfully, the experience was novel enough for the average 6 and 5 year-old that both were extremely enthusiastic. By drawing of straws, the younger was chosen for the first cut. He assumed his seat on my adapted barber’s chair, and bounced with anticipation as I wrapped him in the generic, trash-bag like “barber’s cape” that came packaged with the clippers. I attached the appropriate clipper comb and set the device on his forehead, ready for the initial pass. With a silent word of prayer, I flicked the switch to “on” and began.

……..bzzzzzzt…………bzzzzzzzzt…….bzzzzzt……..

“Huh”, I thought to myself, “that worked kinda like you see on TV”.

……..bzzzzzzt…………bzzzzzzzzt…….bzzzzzt……..

“Hey, well, that doesn’t look too bad….”

……..bzzzzzzt…………bzzzzzzzzt…….bzzzzzt……..

“Well, I’ll be damned! Maybe I won’t have to shave it down completely.”

When all was said and done, both boys were clipped and trimmed, and then gone over again to get any spots I might have missed. When the puddinette returned from her grocery extravaganza and looked upon my handiwork for the first time, her surprised was impossible to hide. “Wow, boys, your hair looks nice; Daddy actually did a pretty Good Job!”. Granted, she spent the next 2 minutes pointing out a places (just a few…here and there) where the clippers *had* to have been uneven since they resulted in wisps of unevenness. Nonetheless, for an amateur whose skill with hair clippers was likely to have been equivalent to an Army boot-camp barber, I must admit that I’m the tinist bit proud of how it all turned out.

Maybe it’s time now to start work on my own head.

pud’n

OK, so it appears that Operation Graduate School was somewhat short-lived, as I ended up only taking the one class.  Sure, I earned that ever important “A”, again demonstrating my life-long psychological need to attain acceptance and validation though my GPA.  After one semester, though, I realized that as the father of 3 children (and with a fourth bun in the proverbial oven), perhaps the amount of time and energy required to attain a Master’s degree that would ultimately have a very limited effect on either my job title or bottom line could be better spent on something else.

As it turns out, that time is, in fact, better spent nowadays in the nightly exercise of kitchen clean-up while simultaneous feeding prunes to an infant, reminding a very talkative 3 year-old that you need to *stop* speaking in order to consume food, and preventing the breakout of WrestleMania 67′s Battle Royale on the family-room love seat.  So, my options were a) continue with grad school or b) prevent household Armageddon.

As an extra bonus, though, less time spent working on grad school means that I still have a little time each week to dedicate to Arrogant Bastard I mean, you’ve got to have priorities, right?

pud’n