Hurry Up, Hair

Getting a decent haircut onto a child’s is a surprisingly similar process to herding cats. For starters, it’s virtually impossible, at least in my experience. Don’t believe these catalogue photos of calm, smiling children with smooth bobs and slick fades – when it comes to end results of haircuts, the reality is more akin to a young swamp monster that’s managed to get its fur stuck in an electric egg beater. 

It’s okay. I’ve come to terms with this, despite my long-held imaginings of perfectly behaved, perfectly attired and perfectly coiffed kids tagging merrily along behind me on a tandem bike of some description. I’ve been assured that it’s quite normal for one’s kids to not live up to the hype fashion-wise, even here in the Melbourne CBD. Hairdressers, I’m told, are clued in to this, but continue to uphold the illusion that it’s possible for your garden variety kid to sport the latest stylish ‘do. 

Okay, maybe I’m taking this a bit far. Maybe it is possible for some kids, just not mine… perhaps my kids have some kind of stylistic fault in their DNA. No, that’s preposterous – I’m their mother, after all, and my hair is perfect. It’s just that they like to roll around in the garden and smear crayons into their faces, which is completely normal behaviour for their ages. I’m hoping that, by age 4, Petra will be a bit more content to let me tie back her hair, and perhaps she’ll even have an entry-level fringe. 

Henry, for his part, has hardly any hair to speak of, so that’s probably why the fade didn’t work out. I took him to the hairdressers at David Jones, thinking that they could do something with his downy mop, and they told me to bring him back when he’s a bit older… look, I suppose they’re probably right, but what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Dress him in an ever-changing variety of hats?

I’m definitely losing the plot here, but you try staying sane with all those tangled strands in your face.