A quarter past three is the witching hour in my neck of the woods.
We all gather, enchantresses of our own domains, at the gates of the little school down the road.
A member of staff braves our ire as she trots out late-ish to draw back the lock: and we’re off, swarming without the aid of our broomsticks around the child-scale playground, hovering at the door from which our children are affably jettisoned when homework has finally been handed out for the day.
Big Al does not go to school yet.
I rather think school is quite relieved about this.
But is it my imagination that the building shrinks ever so slightly at his thunderous three-year-old footfall on the playground tarmac? One day, it anticipates querulously, one day this tiny heavyweight will not be stopped at the doors.
He will not be confined to charging mercilessly around the racetracks and gameboards painted gaily on the glistening play surface, but will expect to gain admittance like some small chubby Orpheus, come to conquer and claim.
But not yet, and not for a while. Today he was sporting unexplained headgear.
It looked top-heavy but rather good: a cycle helmet which fit his head snugly. It was clear he was comfortable in it.
But there was no sign, I observed wryly, of a bicycle.
Big Al’s choice of millinery must be there for another purpose all together. But what, Reader, could this possibly be?
With a three- year-old, one can never really be certain. But a conversation with my sister, his long-suffering mother, revealed a few pertinent truths which could help me in my investigation.
It seems that Big Al has been to the hairdressers today.
He goes to the same one every time: a salubrious establishment used by the Etonians, run by the cleverest of hairdressers who know young people and their little foibles.
Because a lot of young folks simply do not like the sensation, or the after effects, of having their hair cut. Al needs crafty handling.
Today, in a masterstroke, the hairdresser gave Al a squirty bottle, meant for squirting jets of spray to dampen hair. Al approved of this deployment of resources. He learnt quickly to squirt. He began to squirt the nearby floor.
The hairdresser knew a good thing when it arrived. This was her window of opportunity. While Al attempted to reenact The Great Flood using just a plastic bottle, water droplets and some fierce creativity, she excused herself from talking with his mother. Apologies, she said, it’s just that I have to do this while I can….
Snipsnipsnipsnip. Al sat in the chair a new tot. It is possible he beamed out of the new creative space devised for him so ingeniously by this clever hairdresser: but judging by the cycle helmet, a scowl is more likely.
His relieved mother bore him home and I have a feeling the helmet may have been deployed soon afterwards.
We arrived at hers after school for a cup of tea and Al was importuned to remove the now superfluous helmet. He did. Reluctantly. And then he took both hands , and ruffled them up and down furiously in his little blonde shock of hair.
He declared: “I’m going to mess it all up!”
I sensed that our friend Big Al was less than impressed.
Hair is such a touchy subject, don’t you find? The Egyptians shaved theirs and used perfectly formed wigs, scented with fragrant oils. The Romans were fastidious about coiffure. Every civilisation has had its hair thing.
Never has hairstyle intertwined with politics so closely as with Cavaliers and Roundheads.
The Cavaliers, with their long foppish curls, represented so much that was decadent about the monarchy. In their hairstyles the stoic Roundheads found everything to despise and revile. They even bred dogs with long curly hair and huge eyes, the epitome of all that is louche and excessive.
So the Roundheads cropped their hair short and close to their heads. “None of that namby-pamby free hair for us”, their style-statement bawled from the rooftops. “This here is mens’ hair. No confusion here, thank you.”
The brevity of our courts is maintained by coiffure: the white horsehair wigs – short for barristers, long for judges – is an attempt to make all presiding over the facts of the case equal, so a jury may not be swayed by opulent hairstyles as they weigh up the issues open to debate.
Our hair is unfailingly a strong statement, even if you are Robinson Crusoe.
Just over five years ago someone else made a statement with my husband’s hair: one about which Phil was not altogether happy.
He is a restless soul, where hair is concerned. He seeks out new barbers and hairdressers on a regular basis, questing for a holy grail of a coiffure which I am not convinced exists. The day before our wedding he visited a new barber, on his quest as aways, and swapped foppish waves for a brutal short back and sides which resulted in my mother failing to recognise him at the church.
Years later, he was still questing, and decided to take the recommendation of my sister: her hairdresser, a man’s man who loved racing cars and blokish pursuits. This could be the answer to Phil’s dreams.
He headed off with high hopes across town. And when he returned I was rendered uncharacteristically speechless. Because what was on my husband’s head appeared to be a carbon copy of his hairdresser’s style: a classic Mullet.
Have you ever heard of a mullet? Short on top, long down the back, it is a visual representation of Beyond The Pale. While once upon a time in the eighties it was the only option for the lad-about-town, the short top the higher the better, in 2005 it sent non-verbal messages one simply doesn’t want to receive.
We can only surmise that since the artist in charge sported one, he deemed it the highest honour to bestow it on this most honoured of new customers.
It makes one glad the hairdresser did not have a penchant for Mohicans.
Kate Shrewsday 
As the child of a hairdresser, I can wax lyrical about this subject, thanks; you have inspired a post.
BTW, the mullet is quite big in some parts of South Africa, along with the mock-Croc shoe and the Country & Western ballad. Poor Phil.
A reprehensible style.
But I will confess now that Phil has a pair of crocs.
I remember the mullet. I guess in 2005 it could have been classed as retro.
I instructed my fiance not to get his hair cut within two weeks of our wedding. He complied, as a proper husband-to-be should. I was glad, because I’d have hated to have to send him down the aisle in a cycle helmet.
A very wise move indeed, Kathy. Hats of any form are not for the aisle, and as for a cycle helmet….
Hahaha – a mullet in 2005! My husband had a mullet in the 1980s and I do often wonder what he was thinking! A friend of mine in the US calls the mullet the great Kentucky waterfall. And I’m sure you’ve heard the other description of a it: business at front, party at the back. Oh my goodness…
Sunshine xx
In the 1980s, Sunshine, a percentage of us did indulge, but that was because we didn’t know any better 😀 I love the description. Not sure I’d like that particular party though …..
Distasteful circumstance necessitated that I divest myself of home and very young children early on. Son had that first haircut and ex never could comprehend my anger and disappointment at not being there. Later when he was with me “we” had that first being together haircut. It is a ritual, a benchmark for father and son. As time passed he and sister both lived with me. (I told everyone I was right from the beginning). So next there was his “first shave” and as he approachers 30 now I have already seen a few of those “first gray hairs”.
Hair today
gone tomorrow?
Quick on the draw, Pseu!
A hair timeline! I wonder if your Dad has similar recollections about your life, Carl?
I dislike going to the hairdressers. It makes me uncomfortable, all that attention in one place. So I rarely change hairdressers, once I have found one I can talk to!
I hope Big Al has acclimatised to the new do?
Scout was so difficult to take to the hairdressers for ages… he’d scream and kick and shout, so I can understand the hairdresser deploying distraction techniques!
I shall check Big Al out in the playground this afternoon, Pseu. It is possible he has grown more accustomed to his hair. How long can a three year old hold on to a grudge?
Do you really want to know?
a mohican, brightly coloured and ‘treated’ into a stern ridge is a thing to behold. A mullet, well it’s just for a little snigger really.
I’n fairly easy about hairstyles with 2 provisos
1) CLEAN
2) your vision must not be impaired by it
Otherwise shapes, colours etc are all just a personal expression, often a fun way of being a bit different
Have you tried out a Mohican for size?
Kate, you have me laughing in my chair, which is a good thing to do on a cold day. Tom came in to see what was the matter. I read him your tale about Phil’s do. Phil has friends. Friends in the cold midwest. Friends who understand the male haircut dilemma. Once, just once, his hairdresser couldn’t do his hair because she had just delivered a baby. The nerve. Another took her place. I cannot begin the describe the hair raising scene as he came in the door that day, quite upset at his cut. The funny thing was that it looked like it always did.
That’s it, isn’t it, Penny: there is always a post mortem, and I can never see what all the fuss is about. Except for that one time….Phil will appreciate that lone voice from the Midwest 🙂
I’m another one always looking for a better stylist. And when I do find a keeper, she or he moves after a year or three , to a new city, sometimes even to a new career (one became a dietician and refused even to consider doing hair as a sideline 😦 – I mean!). Funny about your mother not recognizing her soon-to-be son-in-law at the wedding… all kinds of story ideas pop into my head… 😉
May you find the stylist of your dreams, Ruth, and may they never consider alternative career options.
I frequently offer up the same entreaty for Phil 😉
Hi Kate. Al seemed quite laid back about the hair when we saw him.
Maybe its a lad thing which matters when you go to your big sisters’ school!
When I was mid life, my hair fell out – all of it, as no doubt you remember. When It grew again, It was grey.
I went to a local barber to get it cut and the grey all disappeared. Back to brown.
Your mother was disgusted at the change, and has cut my hair ever since.
Love Dad
Hi Dad, he was fine today, too, on to the next serious project helping Felix with his new box of cars and shadowing Kit Kat. A new haircut just takes a bit of getting used to 🙂
As does a new head of brown hair, if your experience is anything to go by…
Believe me Kate, if you could have seen al when we used to take Jim when he was really little, he would scream in fear and the hairdresser had to simply cut where she could and when she could. He would shake with fear and almost make himself sick. So the squirty bottle is real progress! I have managed to convince him that it does not hurt and we go through the usual warm up ritual which begins about 3 or 4 days before he has to go. He looks great now. Even with the cycle helmet! I did get a few strange looks down at school with al in his helmet, someone even asked me whether my buggy driving skills were in question!
LOL I think he cut an amazing figure yesterday both with and without the helmet, and he has come such a long way 🙂 That is one talented hairdresser…
Hi Kate
A week or so before our wedding, Nicky took me along to a posh hairdressers to get them to make me look smart before the big day. Far more expensive than the usual cheap and cheerful barber I went to. When I saw my sister on my wedding day, first thing she said to me was “well you could have got your hair cut!!”
Ha! The barbers in Chatham High Street public toilets used to do army-style short back and sides for £2, according to Phil ( the fount of all knowledge, desirable and undesirable). Your sister would have noticed a difference then…maybe not altogether favourable though…
I love the idea of the school shaking on its foundation at the approach of little Big Al.
And he does what I do after a haircut ~ use both hands to “mess it all up”!!! 🙂
Mullets (both the fish and the hairstyle) should always be tossed back.
LOL you are right there, Nancy 😀