Another one from the Facebook vault.
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Not so very long ago, and really just right around the corner, the little boy who wanted to eat dinner with his family had grown a rather alarming bushy head of hair. (He was allowed to eat dinner with his family every day now, and breakfast and lunch, too, which may have contributed to his prolific hair growth.) His hair had grown so big that even his darling auntie had mentioned it. The little boy was surprised, as his auntie had previously thought that he was perfect in every possible way. “Still,” he thought, “I like my plume. I like to rub food in it.”
No one asked his opinion, though, and one day the dreaded scissors appeared in his mother’s hand. The little boy was not unduly alarmed, since he had observed scissors being used on many things. Yarn, for instance, and coupons, and tragic 401K statements (though he did not understand what those were, and had only heard them discussed in lugubrious tones).
The little boy grew suspicious when his clothes were stripped off, and when he was set down firmly in the kitchen sink, he began to grumble out loud. He did not want a haircut. He did not want a haircut, he did not want to be restrained, and he did NOT want hair all over his face. His papa, who could normally be counted on for kisses and pats and, most importantly, bottles, was now holding his head very hard in his enormous hands and making comments about sad hairy naked little sumo wrestlers, which the little boy did not find funny AT ALL. He increased his wails in proportion to his indignities, and the walls echoed with his outrage.
We draw a gentle curtain over the next part of the story, dear reader, and note only that at one point the little boy gave up the fight and put his face down on his knees and sobbed piteously, but even this did not reach the stony hearts of his parents. The little boy renewed his protests, his parents continued with their heartless endeavor, and in the end the little boy was shorn. (Grapes included for perspective. It might actually be a pound of hair, there.)
No immediate comfort was to be had when the deed was done. Instead, the little boy was carried outside and hosed off like a puppy, and then dipped in the paddling pool. “Outrageous!” the little boy said to himself, “Do they think they can buy back my affection with a swim? A swim in … well. This water does feel nice. Perhaps I could splash a bit …” And his cheeks, flushed from his extended and vigorous protests, began to cool in the summer evening air.
Still, the little boy’s memory was not so short. A warm dry towel did not quell his suspicions completely, nor did the new pajamas. It was a very nice dinosaur on the pajamas, but he was missing most of his hair. He would NOT smile at his mother, no matter how much she tickled his belly.
Though it was true that most days she gave him Cheerios. And milk and bananas. And sometimes ice cream. Perhaps … but no. He would NOT smile at his mother.
Definitely not.
The end.
(written August 2011)