I know what you're thinking: Why would Jon need to go within five miles of a hairdresser, much less have to make a mad dash down to the one at Freehold Mall at 8:00pm on a Tuesday? You're right, of course. Ever since the local barber started charging a search fee, I've waxed my head in the privacy of my own bathroom. Unfortunately, last night, shortly after Senior Management arrived home from a stress-filled day at work in the city, one of our 13-year-old daughters cracked the three-digit code on the padlock that keeps her out of my basement office,
The first we knew about it was when she started playing my keyboard at volume 11 (the office doubles as a recording studio and fitness center). Sadly, before she decided to tickle the ivories, she found the scissors that were on my desk and... well, let's just say she must have wanted to look a bit more like her dear old dad. Hence, the late-night dash to Kids-cutz.
Being a 'glass-half -full' kind of guy, I'm trying to look on the bright side: She looks years younger; we'll save a lot of money on shampoo over the next few months; it'll be easier to tell her apart from her twin sister etc; but her mom's not taking it so well. It doesn't help that we've a wedding to attend in less than a fortnight (my suggestion that we could always stand Rachel behind the bride for the photos was not well received).
In a weird, twisted way, I'm even grateful that she's autistic, since she'll feel no embarrassment about spending the next few months looking like Yul Brynner's smaller stunt-double. Actually, it's not totally gone, but her hair's a darn sight shorter than most of the boys at her school.
Ah well, 'spilled milk' and all that.