Sunday Haircuts

The big red chair in the living room of our home was a nesting place. It was large enough for the three of us to be in at the same time, wide enough for hide and seek around it, tall enough to be the roof holder for our forts and soft enough to sleep in. The big red chair was daddy's chair.

Sunday nights after bath time, the tickle monster would chase us around the chair and attack at just the right moment, sending us all into peels of giggles and laughter and sometimes the tears of "Please stop, I can't take it anymore".  Then daddy would give up his monster bit and get his dop kit and sit down in the big red chair to have his hair cut.  I was older so I got to cut his hair which meant I got to hold the little black comb with the tight teeth.  My sister had to do the manicure and the washing of the hair.

She would get the little stool and stand at the back of the chair and reach up to wash dad's hair.  She'd say, "Lean back please sir," and he would tilt his head so she could reach him. I would watch as she poured out the shampoo and began to lather it up in his hair.  Sometimes daddy would ask for extra conditioning, so she would add that too.  She'd make all the noises of the water rinsing and then towel him off and move on to do his manicure and the filling of his callouses.

After the shampoo, I took over with the actual cutting.  First I'd comb all his hair down from the crown, and stand back and look at it, then I'd comb it all forwad and stand back and look at it. I was getting my aim of attack on, but really I was just giving daddy funny hairdos.  I would decide down was better for a cut and proceeded to trim. "How much do you want off sir?"

"Just clean it up around the edges, please" or "Quarter inch, please" would be his reply.  So I would walk around the big red chair and trim my daddy's hair with my finger scissors.  We would sometimes talk about the events of the day, and sometimes, he'd just close his eyes and rest.  I always got to use the razor to clip the fuzz on his neck and would use the appropriate buzzing noises to do so.  Then I gave him a scalp and neck massage, "got to get those natural oils working through your hair."

We'd finish off with a correct styling and take off the towl tucked in his collar, brush off his neck with his whisk brush and remove the cape off his front and fold it up.

On a really good day, he'd ask for a shave too.  My sister and I would both work on this particular aspect og male grooming.  We would find a "hot" towel and wrap his head in it; sometimes he'd say, "Oh, that's hot."  Then one of us would get to lather him up with the shave cream brush and cup or the shave cream can, depending on the method he was currently using. "Sssssshhhhhhhhhh," squirting it out of the can and playing with it in our hands, and finally getting down to the business of putting it on his face.  The razor was the black comb turned backwards, and we each got to do one side of his face. 

Sitting on the arms of the chair, we would very carefully scrape the comb across our imaginary shave cream and shave our dad, saying all the right little directions and such.  He would role play right along with us.  We always ended a shave with a tonic of kisses and then stand back for a look at the finished product.

I can only imagine how he didn't break out into laughter when I'd cock my head to the side and glare at a piece of hair out of place, or when I'd see the ear hairs or nose hairs sticking out. "Oh, I forgot to trim that, hold on one more second". "Snip, snip. We'll see you next week."

Then it was off to bedtime for us.  We did that for years.  Eventually, my sister took over the cutting and Sunday haircuts became a memory of warm and fuzzy time with dad.  I am thankful for the imagination they fostered in us.