By Lorry Myers
It was Saturday and I was running between the washing machine and the vacuum cleaner trying to keep the children from killing each other.
“Can I walk uptown and get a haircut?” my son asked, bored with annoying his two sisters. Taylor was ready to leave “baby” school behind on his way to bigger and better things, like middle school.
Surely, he could manage a haircut on his own.
“Now listen,” I warned him, more than once. “Pay attention before you cross the street.” I crammed money into his pocket and told him to tell the barber to cut his hair the usual way. I ruffled his shaggy head while my only son rolled his eyes.
Something I would see often in the next several years.
Usually, I took him to the barber, dragging his little sisters along, whining and tugging on my sleeves. So, I was glad when my son asked to walk the three blocks to the barbershop on his own.
He was a big boy now, but I kept that to myself.
We all followed Taylor out to the sidewalk. There, his little sisters and I watched him take off toward town, never looking back one time. It wasn’t long before the phone rang, it was the barber calling.
“Did you know that Taylor …” was all he could get out before I interrupted, never giving him a chance to talk.
“Of course, I know that Taylor is there for a haircut…” I responded, thanking him for calling and watching out for my son. I also passed on that Taylor, and I had discussed his haircut before he left, so I would let Taylor tell him how he wanted it cut.
“OK.” the barber replied, sounding skeptical, “I just wanted to check with you first.”
A short time later, I looked up from my laundry folding when the front door opened, not recognizing the person that walked in. Who was this boy, strong and sturdy with a shiny bald head?
Bald head!
I blinked several times, hoping to clear my vision. There he was, my little boy, “technically” still in baby school, and his head was bald as an old man.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.
