Looking for a flashback this morning, I spied this photo, which Basil framed 15 years ago: Catherine’s first haircut.
You’d never guess now, seeing her waist-length mane, but she had the barest little fuzz on her head when she was born. It grew so slowly that she was past her second birthday when it became time for the first trim.
For reasons I cannot remember (or perhaps have blocked out), Basil took her … to his barber.
I recall protesting at the time that young ladies didn’t see a barber, but as is often the case in our family unit, I was overruled.
I may also have been so sleep-deprived that I couldn’t put up a proper fight.
Anyway, he took her to see Tony the barber. And in case you want to further question my parenting credentials, I’ll confess that they went without me. There are several rolls of film chronicling every second of the experience; stop by if you’d like to see them.
It was a success, as first haircuts go. Looking at the photo, perhaps only I can tell that the sweet half-smile on her face is less amusement than it is anxiety. No matter. She looked cute as a button.
Last weekend our next-door neighbors took their 16-month-old, Hunter, for his first haircut, and we were more than a little shocked to hear they used a fancy salon on Greenwich Avenue that charged them $60 to trim a handful of wayward curls. Hunter watched a cartoon and they left with a certificate memorializing the day.
After hearing their tale, Basil’s trip the barber sounds much more sane.