Every summer my husband, Jack, tries to convince our son, Jackson, to let us shave his head. I don’t know why Jackson never goes for it, half the boys in our neighborhood have a quarter inch of fuzz on their heads all year round and they look great. They also probably have no choice.
For better or for worse, we let Jackson have the final decision when it comes to his appearance. I had the freedom to wear whatever the hell I wanted when I was his age, and I had a ball getting dressed in the morning. (I had a special fondness for orange knee socks and making a ponytail stick out over my left ear.) Accordingly, some days Jackson walks out the door sporting the cunning pajama top/Yankees t-shirt/Texas Longhorns cap ensemble:
During the school year, I’m usually the one who grabs his clothes in the morning and combs his hair before shoving him out the door with a piece of toast in his hand, but now that it’s summer, anything goes. Which means that so far (we’re only on the second day of summer vacation) he’s chosen to spend most of the day in his underpants. I made him get dressed yesterday before his haircut, though.
That’s Franco. He likes to give Jackson what’s known as The Handsome Cut. Franco has a little barber shop on Victoria Street in Santa Barbara; you pay a membership fee and after he cuts your hair he’ll give you a glass of good scotch and a fine cigar. Jackson declined the cigar yesterday, but he got Franco’s last Hershey’s Kiss out of the big glass jar on the counter next to the stash of Playboy magazines.