A good hair day
The Kid sat in the barber’s chair Wednesday evening and glared at me while pointing to the waiting area.
“You go over there,” he ordered. “I hate you.” I knew the hate-speak had everything to do with the setting. When it comes to offering input on Black hair, this writer is illiterate.
So Mom saddled up at ringside.
“You too,” he added.
We took that as a victory. Our son is autistic, and it’s taken the better part of his 10 years to get him to fly solo for a haircut.
I didn’t need the arrival of Autism Acceptance Month to reflect on our son’s sensory processing issues being triggered by the likes of a haircut. It happens every time we tell him to brush his teeth. Or cut his nails. Or shower. A trip to the dentist is more terrifying to him than a Supreme Court nominee is to a member of Congress from the opposing party.
For me, there’s an extra layer of anxiety. He was a bald baby when we met, but we were soon warned by Black friends: “Don’t be those white parents of the adopted Black kid, the ones who make all the Black parents say, ‘Oh that poor kid! His parents don’t know how to take care of his hair.’ ”
Yeah, I wish he came with a hair-care handbook. In fact, I’m no better with white hair. Growing up, my dad gave me and my brothers trims with clippers he redeemed with green stamps. When I innocently accompanied a childhood friend into a barbershop for his appointment, his Italian barber saw me as an affront to his profession.
“Who did this to you?” he bellowed.
Thus, I have a lifelong addiction to baseball caps and the bald spot of a medieval monk. My wife once dragged me to a stylist. She got good results ... which lasted precisely 18 minutes. I’m having a Bad Hair Life.
It’s been a gradual process to get The Kid over his brand of shear terror. When he was younger, the kid-friendly shops with toys, games and videos sometimes worked, and just as often offered too much stimulation.
The only thing worse than fighting to get him into the chair is when he escaped mid-cut. He preferred looking like Sideshow Bob to returning.
But I’ve come to see barbers and stylists as wizards and sorceresses. They’ve seen everything when it comes to special needs. They know to wet the comb rather than to spray the head, and to avoid the cold touch of metal on skin. And they’ve developed endless patience.
Haircuts were less frequent during COVID, so it took an extra push to persuade The Kid to wait his turn at a shop in the Trumbull mall last year. The barber warned us he was working solo that day. There was a young man in the chair, and an older client on deck who needed a trim for a wedding rehearsal in a few hours.
Little did we know the guy beneath the apron was The Vainest Man Alive. He kept changing his mind on what look to go for. He directed the barber to try one, then sized himself up in the mirror.
Nope, try another one.
More mirror.
Nope.
Again.
Nope.
I learned a lot about Black haircuts that day. The fade. The hard part. The shape-up. The Caesar Cut. But he seemed destined to start with a Weeknd and end up with a Michael Jordan.
That our son sat still for the first hour of waiting was miraculous. We finally surrendered and went nearby for lunch.
Remarkably, Capt. Narcissist was still in the chair when we returned. The Kid couldn’t take any more and broadcast asides such as, “Can you believe this guy?”
The barber seemed to appreciate the support. The worst part was that the guy looked good with every cut. My wife recalls him as giving off the vibe of a lean Tyson Beckford (I still see Mr. Potato Head).
That The Kid waited was another benchmark. But it wasn’t until a subsequent stop at a Danbury Supercuts that we finally met the stylist who didn’t split hairs about our lack of attention to The Kid’s scalp.
She cast side-eyes. She delivered advice. She sold products.
I could have used this direction a decade ago. Of course, back then I was still seeking a lifeline whenever The Kid’s locks rolled in the sand at the beach (tips on detangling methods remain welcome).
So we’re both making progress, even if I’m still not ready to write the male sequel to the 2009 documentary “Good Hair,” which explored the relationship between Black women and their tresses. Of course, that film’s producer and narrator — Chris Rock — seems to have forgotten the lessons of his own movie.
At least The Kid likes his new haircut. How do I know? He forgot he hates me.
We were soon warned by Black friends: “Don’t be those white parents of the adopted Black kid, the ones who make all the Black parents say, ‘Oh that poor kid! His parents don’t know how to take care of his hair.’ ”