life lessons at the barbers

decided, done

It’s officially my daughter’s birthday month as she likes to say. She’ll turn 9 soon and wants to cut her beautiful long blonde hair off into a bob, like she did when she turned 7. It’s taken two years to grow from her shoulders to her mid-back and I am doing everything I can to stop this haircut happening without saying something irretrievable like you will regret it and it’s horrible to live with regrets trust me.

Yesterday I allowed my 3-year-old boy a haircut. All my boys have long hair and have never expressed interest in cutting it. Until now.

His baby hair is still so delicate, and I thought it would encourage more growth and thickness in the long term if a bold cut was done now. Slightly disturbed by his determination to have a boy haircut, a footballer haircut, I took him to the barbers and we had to wait as a man got his hot shave washed off and ear hairs trimmed. When it was his turn he wanted me nearby, so I sat him high in the chair and stood behind him, watching every snip through the mirrors. The gown was swamping him, a floating face. He is usually the loudest boy, but he sat very quiet contemplating each clump of his white hair falling.

This impulsive haircut was an education for both of us in many ways.

It is unusual for me to do something with just one child, so when he asked for a haircut, I thought it would be good to take him on his own. He was so happy to be with me alone, doing something entirely focused on him. It made me feel bad in a way as it’s such a rarity – but it was such golden time and emphasised the importance of individual time with all of them.

He asked for a haircut and the next day I took him for a haircut. Decided, done. I seem to spend so much of my life thinking of things I’d like to do. Actioning those things takes an inordinate amount of time, many of those things will never happen. I’d like to go to a London lido before we move, go to the cinema on my own, get a pedicure, work in the British library and for the family to go rock climbing. Why haven’t I just booked these things?

I am so tied to long hair. I don’t know why but I am. I am committed to my long hair; I spend hours each week tending to it. I’ve made a living out of it this year but for many years my hair has essentially been my main hobby. Perhaps it was the traumatic hair modelling experience I had (will write about that soon) or the thrill of the compliments I got when young about the condition of my ends and maybe those compliments lead me to believe my hair was the best thing about me – whatever the case, I’m anxiously attached.

On our podcast a few weeks ago, I talked about how those compliments stopped coming in the last few years (when I sat down in the make-up chair on the few and far between acting jobs I’ve done) and I burst into tears on camera. It was incredibly embarrassing, but I didn’t cut it out of the episode. Vanity is embarrassing, and we all are attached to certain parts of our aesthetic – the little choices we make with our outfits or make-up, tote bag or no tote bag, nails done or not – we are presenting the version of ourselves we want people to meet first.

My little boys need to wear neon sweatbands on their wrists.

One carries a Thor hammer or sword on their back to playgroup, one of them must be carrying a football at all times.

They both wear their socks in a particular way, either rolled up or pulled up high.

One only wears red shoes.

One still has very long hair (like Thor), and now one has new short hair, like a footballer.

He’s so happy with his new hair. He seems lighter and thrilled by his new image.

I’m scared what I’d be without my hair, and now that my hair is connected to my income, that fear is validated. But maybe, in a year or so, I should go into a hairdresser and be brave like my toddler.