Another weekend, another Saturday! As i stretch lazily on my bed ever so reluctant to start my day a thought flashes across my mind. Oh! no! today i have to take my kids for a haircut. What’s so great you may wonder? Well hair cutting is similar to wrestling without the Olympic Medal of course!
I summon all my energy, get up and get ready to face the challenges ahead.
Around 10 in the morning i dress my kids and bundle them out of the house saying we are going ‘grocery shopping’. They happily trudged along with dreams of candies and chocolates swimming in their eyes.
I marched them straight to the salon. As we entered the premises, my elder one said staunchly ‘ I don’t want to cut my hair and become a boy’. With promises of turning her into Barbie instead i made her sit on the high stool.
Snip, snip, snip goes the scissor as the hairdresser furiously trimmed her hair, making eye contact with me now and again to be reassured that yes! please make it shorter still. My daughter looked grumpy and kept peering into the mirror to see whether she looked like Barbie yet! After thirty minutes of snip and snap , with all hair dusted off her, my little girl emerged and after a careful study burst into tears. ‘Momma barbie does not have hair in front and so short!’All kinds of consolations followed and she finally shushed when i told her that her hair will soon grow back.
Then it was my younger one’s turn, even before she sat down she started howling. She imagined that she was being given an injection. After a hug and a pat and a million kisses she finally settled down. Meanwhile the hairdresser was giving me impatient looks ‘ Madam please quieten the child’…..or ‘ Madam don’t worry’ etc..as i was interpreting them. If children were so easily dealt with won’t we mothers had been a peaceful lot!
The man said ‘look down baby’ and my girl looked up, he said ‘ look to the left’ and she looked to the right. After twenty minutes he looked frustrated and my child looked hysterical and i looked ready-to-enter-the-arena. After some gentle persuasion i took her head in hand and tried to keep it steady as the man went snipping here and tucking there etc.
All this while D, my younger one howled and screamed as if she was being butchered alive.
Anyways work ninety percent accomplished i asked the hairdresser to stop, made D quiet and rushed her out of the salon.
Imagine my surprise when she stepped out and twirled on her little toes to exclaim in delight that she has turned into a Barbie.
‘Then why do you scream inside the salon?’ I inquired.
“I remembered the pain of my last injection and could not control myself’……all this from the mouth of a three year old.
As we trudged back home, D and G happily pranced along as i looked bedraggled and felt sore.