Erma tagged along while I ran errands on Saturday. She is of the opinion that errands are fun and exciting. (I wonder when it hits a person that picking up prescriptions and folding laundry are neither fun nor exciting? Is that what coming of age is all about?)
“Next I am going to get a haircut,” I explained.
“I want a haircut, too!” she explained back.
The Z-bird on my shoulder whispered, “You know how I feel about this.” That is to say, Flathead is a lover of the wild, long, untamed look. If possible, he would choose for Erma’s hair to be cut sometime after never or beyond.
But the M-bird on my other shoulder (I know, kinda blows your mind that I am sitting on my own shoulder, doesn’t it?) said, “Yes! Let’s do it!”
So we did. (Sorry, Z-bird. You just didn’t have much of a chance.)
“How short would you want it cut?” I inquired as we pulled into the parking lot of a popular hair salon chain.
“Like Daddy’s!” she said.
The Z-bird on my shoulder gave me the stink-eye.
“Um, how about not like Daddy’s,” I said, more because the M-bird and I feared coming home with a daughter sporting a buzz cut.
So we compromised and cut off less than an inch. The stylist loved Erma’s hair so much that she gave her lots of curls.
In the chair next to Erma, a stranger told Erma, “Oh wow, you look just like a princess.”
Erma stared at herself in the mirror and beamed. There’s nothing quite like being fussed over and adored.
“Just like a princess,” the cutter who gave me my trim agreed.
Then Erma’s hair artist pulled off the black cape to reveal the princess…
in sweatpants and a creamsicle t-shirt.
Hey, did I mention that I got a haircut, too? Not a princess cut. I just got a regular one, to match my new non-owl-like glasses.
And Erma got a sticker and a plastic giraffe for being fussed over by a hair stylist.
This weekend was a winner!