The Morning of April 26th was not meant to be so amusing, but it was. I was fully submerged in journal-ing when my father, who had been lost somewhere in the bathroom for the better part of the morning, came running towards me. It was more like galloping, actually - this, I was aware of from the corner of my eye - and I thought he was just happy to see me, but no.
Like a five year old who had discovered the autonomy of taking scissors to mane for the first time, he bent his head over to show me his new art project. My father had Picasso-ed the bottom half of his head, and he was happy as a clam at low tide, as the saying goes. His smile was reminiscent of the little boy - a picture of him at three years old - wearing a mini tie and about to blow out his birthday candles. Purely innocent and naive.
His hair was some strange abstract cut with misshaped blotches - patches of hair that had been buzzed off to give it an awkward, uneven line. You could see the bare flesh, that once hid behind a feather collection of hair, peak out like an angry old man. To him, it was style. to me, it was a fruitless effort, but one I only encourage because how else does one learn to cut hair? But to my mom - oh boy - she was horrified, and wasted no time telling him so. "what have you done to your head? you've ruined your hair!"
She said this so adamantly that I think she felt the deepening regret before my father did, and instantly seemed to carry that burden for him. The displeasure in here voice did, however, give birth to doubt in my father, and he was suddenly dissatisfied at his creation.
Like a five year old, who had just gotten in trouble by his parent, my father's voice hesitantly said, "You think so?"
She said this so adamantly that I think she felt the deepening regret before my father did, and instantly seemed to carry that burden for him. The displeasure in here voice did, however, give birth to doubt in my father, and he was suddenly dissatisfied at his creation.
Like a five year old, who had just gotten in trouble by his parent, my father's voice hesitantly said, "You think so?"
I could see it in his face, glee had been given away to disappointment in an instant. So he and I tried to fix his mistake by evening out the abstract craftsmanship, but after a good hour of trying to salvage what dignity there was left on his head - the more I buzzed the worse it got - we realized it all had to go.
My father's face grew solemn as he looked on through the mirror. His expression remained reserved, but I could tell he was uncertain. I sensed his thoughts; my father's youth has faded into a distant memory, and he is not immune to insecurity. With some worry, he watched me take the electric razor, and mow his head like he had been an overgrown stretch of grass. The tuft of hair dispatched in mournful fashion from his scalp, and the loud hiss of the razor rang like a siren, covering up the silence, but not the regret. I was trying to take care of his head of hair as best as I could, but I presume I took too long or perhaps my father itched to take control of his own mess, but whatever the case, my father grabbed the razor from my hand and worked through his salt and pepper mane, trying to avoid a complete shave.
His attempt was short lived. He resigned whatever hope he had, and told me to shave it all off. And so, that is what I did. By the end, both of us were covered with the the bristles of his fluffy hair - old remnants of his rueful art project. We took turns vacuuming the divorced strands that clung to our clothes, and silently said good-bye to the old fur. It was, strangely ceremonial, and perhaps, a little liberating for my father.
My father's face grew solemn as he looked on through the mirror. His expression remained reserved, but I could tell he was uncertain. I sensed his thoughts; my father's youth has faded into a distant memory, and he is not immune to insecurity. With some worry, he watched me take the electric razor, and mow his head like he had been an overgrown stretch of grass. The tuft of hair dispatched in mournful fashion from his scalp, and the loud hiss of the razor rang like a siren, covering up the silence, but not the regret. I was trying to take care of his head of hair as best as I could, but I presume I took too long or perhaps my father itched to take control of his own mess, but whatever the case, my father grabbed the razor from my hand and worked through his salt and pepper mane, trying to avoid a complete shave.
His attempt was short lived. He resigned whatever hope he had, and told me to shave it all off. And so, that is what I did. By the end, both of us were covered with the the bristles of his fluffy hair - old remnants of his rueful art project. We took turns vacuuming the divorced strands that clung to our clothes, and silently said good-bye to the old fur. It was, strangely ceremonial, and perhaps, a little liberating for my father.
As it turns out, on a Sunday afternoon, my father did find a way to resemble a piece of art. He, unknowingly, came to look like Edvard Much's "The Scream."
Way to go dad. You are, in your own way, a canvas. An accidental virtuoso. A professional amateur, and an eternal optimist with too much time on your hands. And I love you, always.
Way to go dad. You are, in your own way, a canvas. An accidental virtuoso. A professional amateur, and an eternal optimist with too much time on your hands. And I love you, always.
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