I gathered the ragamuffins close to me as we walked across the parking lot. It was haircut day and Little Legs happily skipped along, certain that he was about to get a lollypop. Baby Brother, on the other hand, was very unhappy about missing his morning nap and increased the volume of his screams the closer we got to the entrance.
At the door, we were greeted by a woman who was no less than seven feet tall. Her bleach blonde hair was piled into a messy bun on top of her head, adding another three inches to her already impressive height.
“Happy Halloween, boys.”
“What’s your phone number?” the very tall woman asked, the only information required to check-in.
She hunted and pecked out the numbers, one by one.
“Ok, I see we’ve had Little Legs here before,” she peered down as Little Legs reached up for the bowl of Dum-dums on the counter.
“Karen is going to take you,” she said, sliding the bowl back from the edge with a throaty, barmaid laugh.
“I’m done with kids for today, I got mine off to school and I’ve been marinating ever since.”
I glanced down at my watch; it was only a few minutes after 10. Two hours of marinade should be enough to tenderize even the toughest bird. I assumed she needed a little more time and sauce to reach that sweet spot. We simply were not there, yet.
Instantly, I felt grateful for Karen, whom I had never met, but would be handling the scissors that the still-marinating, very tall woman would not be using in my sons’ hair.
Until Karen emerged from the back of the salon.
She grabbed a slip of paper from the register and held it out to me with hands that shook like leaves in the breeze.
“This look right?” she asked.
It was our information, so I nodded.
“Let’s get started,” she said.
She held out a shaky, crooked pinky to Little Legs; he wrapped his fingers around it and walked to her chair to get another unique, impossible to repeat, haircut.
“You’re next, Baby Brother,” I whispered.