My New Hairdresser

A long time ago I gave Toby his very first Doctor’s kit to play with and was amused by the fact that he immediately gravitated to the plastic scissors so he could set up a Hair Salon and play the role of “Toby the Hairdresser”.  It was not exactly how I had envisioned this doctor’s kit to be used but I wanted to foster an open carefree approach to creative play and non-gender-biased-career selections.  I also prefer having my hair done than playing monster trucks, so I went with it.

I still get regular check ups by a very thorough “Dr Henry”. Tonight, for example, he found a piece of “Black sushi” in my left ear and he KNOW S it was black sushi because he TASTED it.    (I know it ruins the story to point this out but THIS WAS TOTALLY IMAGINARY.  On the off chance that someone ACTUALLY thinks I had a piece of black sushi trapped in my ear that my son discovered with his plastic otosope; I don’t want any phone calls from CAS.  Dr Henry Jr. has a wild imagination…)

Last spring we had a family wedding and I took Toby with me to a REAL hair salon so we could have our hair done together.  This impressed him FAR more than any trip to the doctor’s had and his interest in the game of hairdresser was rekindled.   I have to say that it has lost some of its relaxing charm as Toby now insists on small talking to me while he brushes my hair, rubs various stuff into it and then aggressively combs it out. 

Tonight, I had a particularly bothersome time of it.  First off, he had me all positioned in the chair and then announced, (with a very professionally, albeit) that he had to go to the washroom.  “Are you comfortable?” he asked me, as I lay cramped sideways in the lazy-boy with my head dangling over the armrest,  “Because I have to go have a poo. "I will be RIGHT back to cut your hair after I’m done.”

I told him he should make a sign saying “The hairdresser will attend to you after his poo” and laughed to myself as he carried on with his business. Toby didn’t see the humour in it.  He takes the hairdresser role (and his nightly bowel movements) very seriously.

He emerged from the bathroom with various “hairdressing objects” in his hand and his loud-mouthed sister behind him.  When she tried to climb onto my lap Toby immediately attended to his customer with the greatest of concern,  “This is my kid sister.  You can take care of her while I cut your hair.”

I pointed out to him that it wasn’t a great business idea to ask your customers to babysit your little sister while you cut their hair so Toby corrected himself and told me that she was actually his assistant.

You didn’t have to tell Mia twice!  She LEAPED out of my lap, and ran to get her OWN hair cutting supplies and before I knew it I had both the bossy-small-talking-hairdresser and his CRAZY assistant at work on my hair.

Might I remind you that I am still contorted sideways in the lazy-boy chair with my head dangling over the edge?  I had no way of seeing WHAT objects they had both grabbed.  I didn’t worry about this at first because, in typical Toby-hairdressing-fashion, I was being asked the myriad of questions that Hairdressers ask, “So…what’s your name?” he started with.  I told him. “OH, that’s a nice name.  How old are you?” I told him my age and he said, “Wow.  That’s QUITE old.  I am MUCH younger than you.”  Then he asked me my address and how many kids I had.  All of a sudden I felt a sharp pain around my left temple and there was an abrupt cessation to the questioning.

In fact, the whole hairdressing experience became suddenly quite subdued as Toby worked away.  Even his maniacal assistant stopped her frenetic brushing with an eerie silence.

Finally my hairdresser spoke again but this time without his usual professional tone,

“Uh…mommy…” he said hesitantly, “You have a cement truck stuck in your hair.”

And so I did.

One day, when my child becomes a successful and well-adjusted gay hairdresser, I hope that SOMEONE will remind him of how accepting I was of this endeavour.