Splitting hairs

When each of my boys was very young, I observed the ritual of saving their locks of hair. Early on, it was about capturing the several inches of their baby hair. To me, these locks represent a time capsule of dead cells that were born before they were even aware of their own names, and carried through to this first symbolic shearing. Capturing those hairs was like capturing the time again, to be encased and recorded for all time. To be treasured.

But, see, the thing is that my favorite place to get the kids hair cut is the mall. This is because the mall is a great playground for all of us, where they can run around at full speed, and I can get some shopping done at the same time. So hair cutters at the mall rely, as most hair cutters do, on volume business. And I had no desire to capture the hair of strangers along with my own boys. So, I would hover around them and catch the hair as it fell, snatching it from the air before it wafted, ad baby hair is wont to do, slowly and softly to the linoleum tile. And being a macho-manly-kinda guy, I did this without the hair cutters seeing me do it, lest my softer side of Sears be revealed. Don't ask me why I think this way, just accept it as a given.

Anyway, this past weekend, we made a special family trip to get all our hair cut. I guess Big T, being older, had noticed this ritual of mine before Lil T. He didn't realize it had been some years since I last hovered to snatch the hair of either boy, having scarfed away enough to stuff a small pillow. After the haircut was over, Big T came over to me with his hand tightly closed. "I'm sneaky." he smiled. He opened his hand to reveal a handful of his own hair clippings, maybe a half an inch long, presenting it to me like a secret treasure.

And acknowledging that that's what they are.