Many of the telltale signs that spring is here have recently befallen us. Or at least they have around my house. This week will be a collection of short stories sighting examples of how spring is showing its presence in the Nichols home.
The first example is that I recently got my – more or less – semi-annual haircut. Every spring when it seems the weather is about to break, I will cut off a full winter’s worth of hair and facial growth. I traditionally let my hair and beard grow out all winter, and I have since I was capable of doing so. This is not the result of a statement, or a “look” I’m going for by any means. It is simply for two very shallow, primal reasons. I hate the cold, so I let my winter coat grow out to keep me warm, and I’m lazy and have no interest in investing the time into grooming. So if I’m warm and comfortable with little to no effort, and my wife and kids still dig me, then sign me up. I gave up on trying to impress people who are inconsequential to me somewhere around the second grade.
I usually wait until mid to late May to shed the winter coat, but I decided to go early this year for a variety of reasons. One of which is that I got really tired of waiting for that jackass of a groundhog to decide when spring is coming so I took it upon myself to expedite the process. (Speaking of which, am I the only person who thinks that is the most bizarre ritual in Western civilization? I think Groundhog Day alone is sufficient reason for the rest of the world to hate us. And that’s before they’ve even seen some the crap we watch on TV.) Another reason is that my ten-month-old daughter has a penchant for getting a firm grip on both my locks, and my beard at the same time, and pulling with all she has. I know that may sound like I’m being a wimp to anyone to whom this has never happened, but trust me when I say it’s much more painful than you would think. She locks on like a pit-bull and just laughs as I squirm in pain. First I try prying her drool and booger covered fingers loose, but it never seems to work. So then I have to shake my head violently like a full grown Saint Bernard trying to dry himself after a swim in the pond. Eventually, she will bust loose and fly across the room with a tuft of salt and pepper follicles in each tiny fist. I try my best to aim her towards something soft but it doesn’t always pan out. If I ever want to get my security deposit back, it’s going to take a LOT of spackling.
Before you start trying to obtain my real identity, and start placing frantic calls to Social Services, let me just say that most of the last paragraph was strictly for comedic purposes. I DO NOT in fact, launch my infant daughter across my house, so relax and enjoy the rest of the story. I know it’s difficult for many of you to believe, but on occasion, I tend to use sarcasm.
The young lady who is bold enough to take on the daunting task that is wrestling with my hair two or three times a year fortunately lives right down the street from me so I can walk there. I arrived at her home, and she made a comment about my being a little early in the season this year, and asked what I wanted her to do. I confirmed that it was earlier than usual, but despite that fact, I still wanted her to bust out the clippers for back and sides. Each winter, I hold out desperately hoping for the mullet to come back, and each spring I’m disappointed. I was going to just lead the charge myself, but I didn’t want to deal with the pressure of my lack of knowledge about hockey becoming an awkward issue during a conversation. She and I happen to be very close friends as well, so we take advantage of this time to catch up on things. I personally can’t operate two pieces of silverware simultaneously, but she, thankfully, can laugh, tell a story, and work comb and scissors all at the same time. I sat there watching clump after clump of both black and white hair cascade down to the floor. I couldn’t help but think that this area looked as if it should be wrapped in yellow crime scene tape because it appeared to be the sight of an unfortunate accident involving a panda, and a wood chipper. Take away the message friends, and don’t allow endangered species near mulching machines.
So, a few belly laughs, and a haircut later, I walked back home. To complete the annual transformation, I immediately jumped in the shower and shaved off about six months worth of facial hair growth. A short while later, I would discover that I had made the IDENTICAL mistake for a second consecutive year. I had put my baby daughter down for a nap just before I went for my haircut. So when she dozed off, Daddy had long hair and a beard, which is how he had always looked in her cognitive memory. Now she awakened with a look of sheer terror as a complete stranger with short hair and a clean shave reached for her in her crib. As was the case almost exactly one year earlier when I unintentionally did the same thing to her sister, I was befuddled for a moment by her reaction. It took me a few seconds to figure out why she was looking at me as if I were the love child of Abe Vigoda, and Ursula from The Little Mermaid. I had to stand there and sing to her for a few minutes before she realized it was me, and would let me pick her up.
She eventually realized it was Daddy, just a less fun version. I was now a little less of a jungle gym for her from the neck up. I took her in and gave her a bath a short while later, and we both had a ball. While drying her off, I was reminded of an old analogy I had once heard, so I felt inexplicably compelled to test it out. I took my naked, freshly bathed infant daughter, and placed her over my shoulder, essentially in the position of a properly executed fireman’s carry. I pressed her tiny little butt firmly against the side of my now freshly shaven and moisturized face, and called my wife in for a side by side comparison. She came running in assuming I had done something stupid and needed her assistance. (Usually a pretty safe bet). I smiled at her as she arrived and said, “go ahead and touch em. Betcha can’t tell the difference.”
And I think we’ll stop there this week because I just realized it would be way more fun to end with a mental image of me smiling with a baby ass pressed firmly against my face and my wife giving me the omnipresent “you’re an idiot” look. Thanks for playing along.
Until next week,
Syd Nichols.
