Pomp(adour) and Circumstance

It was just 30 minutes before we had to go to the high school for the graduation ceremony, and it suddenly got quiet in the house. I couldn’t imagine where everyone had gone. Just a few minutes before, my son was frantically asking, “Where’s my tie?” “Has anyone seen my tassel?” 

Now? I heard nothing.

I noticed a soothing yellow shaft of light coming through the barely-open bathroom door in our dark hallway, and I approached with utmost caution: Mommy-ing 101 has taught me the important lesson that bathroom doors that are slightly ajar could spell trouble: I listened carefully for sounds of trouble, and by trouble, I mean vomiting.

Instead, I heard a gentle snip snip, and soft voices, one low, one higher. A kitchen chair had been pulled in front of the sink and there sat my 18-year-old son, head down, letting his 14-year-old sister trim his hair. I stood there, completely entranced by what I was seeing. My daughter, taught by hair tutorials on YouTube, has been trimming and coloring her own hair successfully for a while, but she’d never been allowed near her brother’s hair —— until now.

The frantic kid who had just been yelling about the location of shoes had been replaced by a calm, collected teenager, softly laughing and chatting with his sister as she ran her hands through his hair, carefully positioning her scissors and snipping confidently and precisely.

When we had three little boys to raise, my husband decided to buy hair-cutting supplies. He cut our children’s hair at home, saving us…gazillions of dollars? Math isn’t my strong suit, but haircuts every four weeks, (sometimes two during the “buzz cut” years), multiplied by three little heads, adds up to considerable savings. When little sister arrived, Dad the Barber didn’t want to attempt it -— yes, he had become more than comfortable with boys’ haircuts, but didn’t trust himself to learn cutting a more feminine style.

(Allowing someone to cut your hair is the ultimate act of trust. How do I know this? Because I will never get over a particular haircut I got at a salon in my teens. My young, inexperienced hairdresser confidently cut “a little bit” off my bangs and promptly raised her eyebrows and whispered, “uh-oh.”)

Over the years, I have secretly loved observing the father-son haircuts. I cherished the sight of my little boys, trying to stay as still as they could while Daddy carefully snipped. There were conversations in soft, almost reverent tones. I loved how the boys would puff their chubby cheeks and purse their lips and blow upward to chase the snipped hairs from their eyes. In the summer, the barber chair moved to the backyard, where the dappled sunlight cast playful shadows on my boys’ backs, shirtless and tanned from summer adventures. In winter, they giggled at the sight of all of their extra hair, lying on the tile floor in a deflated heap. There was the familiar sound of the chair scraping the bathroom tile, the appraisal in the mirror, then my husband’s voice: “Go get the vacuum.” Little boys with bare feet scampered to grab the vacuum, and as soon as all the hair was gone, there was the screech of the faucet in the shower.

As special as father-son haircuts are, I was not expecting this sister-brother haircut tableau laid before me. My heartstrings tugged a bit. It’s one thing to trust your father to cut your hair. But to trust your little sister? That is special. Trusting her thirty minutes before graduating from high school? That’s practically incomprehensible. 

I wonder if they will remember this haircut in 15 years. Maybe it will be eclipsed by other, more monumental memories. For me, watching this tender moment between siblings when they didn’t realize I was there was like watching an ancient ceremonial ritual wherein a sacred tradition was passed down to the next generation. To see siblings —— teen siblings! —— caring for and trusting each other in such a tactile way was a rare moment. I was lucky to witness it.

An hour later, my son walked across the stage to collect his diploma. His eyes were clear, looking toward a bright future. Thanks to his sister, they were no longer obscured by his long, curly locks, either. His future is bright. His eyes are shimmering with possibility. And I will cherish this day that’s earned a permanent spot in my life’s highlight reel.

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