Compost Studios

Saturday we were at Chievres Air Base, visiting the military PX and commissary for our monthly trip to stock up on American products and groceries. We’d gotten a late start, and by the time we finished shopping, it was dinner time and we opted to enjoy good old American fast food from the Burger King franchise on the base.

We were almost done eating when I noticed the light on at the barbershop and thought, “This is the perfect time for A to get a haircut!” Getting a haircut in Belgium always seems to be such an ordeal, mostly because the local shops have very limited hours and require an appointment and we also have to deal with a language barrier. The military barbershops are the only ones where a guy can simply walk in and wait to get a haircut.

Because it was so late, we sent E-Grrrl over to see what time the barber shop was closing, not wanting to slip in at the last minute and extend someone’s work day. She came back and reported that the barber had said he would give A a haircut if we hurried up.

Mr. A did not want to get a haircut. He hates getting his haircut because he finds the process uncomfortable and itchy. We reminded him that next weekend he’d be getting up in front of a lot of people for a school competition and he should be well groomed and not shaggy. He sighed and E took him over to the barbershop with the instructions to have it cut short on the sides but with enough hair on top to part and have some bangs.

Even though E spoke to the barber in both English and French, there was a MAJOR communication problem. With the first stroke of the clippers, the barber went down to skin and E knew there was no turning back.

When E stepped out of the barber shop, he had his arm around A’s shoulders and I momentarily caught my breath. Mr. A looked like a cancer patient and he was crying. “He shaved my head! And next week I have to get up in front of all those people,” he choked out.

The barber had left a bit of fringe in the front and spiked it with gel. If Mr. A wasn’t already upset enough by the hair cut, he was mortified they had put GEL in his sole remaining patch of hair.

As we walked to the car, E-Grrrl said the perfect thing, “You’re not bald, A. I think it looks cute! You look like the other boys.”

“I know it’s a shock, buddy. It’s a shock for me too, but you do look like one of those athletic types, like your cousin Gilles!” I added.

Mr. A was upset and then angry, railing about how impossible it is to get a good haircut here. Our preferred barber had been counting the money in the register, and his brother had ended up doing A’s haircut. E and I exchanged a look that said, “Was he punishing us for being the last appointment of the day?”

Once in the car, Mr. A spilled fresh tears, crying hard, reiterating again that next week he was going to have to be in front of all those people during a school competition and he had the most horrible haircut ever.

I said, “What are you worried about? Think of K and W—they’re boys and they have to get up in front of everyone wearing TIGHTS and pipe cleaners!” (They’re dressing as aliens as part of a skit.)

That made Mr. A smile and almost laugh.

“No one is going to even notice you while W and T are in those crazy costumes. TIGHTS! HEADBANDS! SWIM CAPS! You’re going to look so NORMAL in comparison. And you know what, I think this haircut looks kinda cute! I like the spikes!”

And I do, kind of, though I’ll be glad to see his hair grow out. My son had more hair when he was born than he has on his head right now, but he is always and forever My Boy.

February 25, 2007