Minutiae. How much of every single day do I find myself absorbed in minutiae? Now that’s not to be confused with manure, of which I tend to find myself intimately acquainted on a regular basis. Rather, I find myself in the constant condition of observing and taking note of the most trivial of details. What may seem to be totally insignificant to one may be a monumental event to another. And now, dear reader (you know who you are) allow me to include you in some of the minutiae of my life.
This past Thursday night we did something really big. Zoë and Z, my oldest boy, got a haircut. Let me say that again, for in dealing with minutiae one has a tendency to glaze over and actually miss the tiny details at hand. Zoë and Z, my oldest boy, got a haircut. Why, you may be asking yourself, is getting a haircut such a significant event? Read on. I’ve got answers.
You see, Zoë and well, all my children for that matter have been late hair bloomers, essentially no hair for the first two years of their lives. It has always amazed me how I could dress Zoë in a pink floral sun dress from Gymboree with matching pink sandals and a pink bow hot glued ever so gently to her bald little head and take her out only to hear from every other person whom we’d meet, “Oh, isn’t that cute. Is she a girl?” or “He’s so adorable, what’s his name?”
At first it used to bother me. Then, it would bother Zoë, which I thought was funny. Zoë has always been very well spoken. Even at 15 months she was articulate: conversation articulate. My twins, at 18 months, are just beginning to realize that the tongue is not only a portal of taste for every single object, edible or not, within a reasonable grasping distance but it can also be used to shape words and make sounds. My youngest boy will say, “jeuw” which means he wants his juice. Unfortunately, that is the only word in his arsenal and when he uses it for anything other than juice finds himself very disappointed, but not thirsty.
Zoë would ask me why everyone kept calling her a boy and I’d try to explain it to her but I really didn’t have a good answer. So I told her to ask them. It was hilarious to see the shocked looks on peoples’ faces as this tiny little girl would rebuke them saying, “My name is Zoë and I’m a girl! Can’t you seeee the pink dress?” Same thing happened to Z, my oldest boy. Not the pink dress thing, the no hair thing. He would get so frustrated at the comments, “Oh, what a lovely family. All girls. How seet.” Z was quick to point out that he was a boy as well as his younger brother. He also, for reasons unknown to me, felt the need to add, “In fact, my dad’s a boy.”
So we let their hair grow, and grow it did. Zoë’s hair is beautiful, straight a mousy brown color and Z’s hair long, straight and golden blonde. I know I’m probably biased here, but they both had beautiful locks. As of late, however, they both had come to loathe their hair. Too many rats. A simply daily brushing could elicit tears sometimes at the very mention of “let’s brush your hair.” They both decided together that it was time for a change.
And so it was this past Thursday night that our little clan descended upon the salon. My wife was off work and we made a family outing of it. After all, this was a big event. Zoë was first, not an ounce of trepidation. She hopped up into the chair and excitedly announced to the stylist, “I want it cut off to here,” motioning to just above her earlobe. The stylist looked at my wife who flatly stated, “She knows what she wants. Don’t worry.” I never thought that it was possible to own or become a hairstyle. Zoë did both right before my very eyes seemingly even before her hair fell to the ground. Pert, sassy and playful in an instant. OK, so Zoë has always been pert, sassy and playful but now she had the hair to go with it. Her excitement radiated throughout the salon.
Z was next and he, too chose to go bold. Remember long, straight and golden blonde? Picture that little kid in Pete’s Dragon. Now picture David Beckham. Z shaved his head. My little boy aged two years in a matter of a few minutes sitting in that chair. It was an amazing transformation. His response, sheer elation. “Well, I won’t need a brush.”
Yep! This past Thursday Zoë and Z got a haircut, a seemingly insignificant event to anyone else. For our family, this was big, really big. And not just so much so for the outward transformation that took place but for what I think was the most significant revelation of the evenings’ events. Our kids are growing up right in front of our very eyes, sometimes it seems in spite of us, in spite of our efforts to hold tight to their youth. This haircut was a statement from Zoë and Z that they are growing up and ready to start making decisions about things that affect their lives, as insignificant as that may be.
The next morning I told Z that just because he got his hair cut like Beckham does not mean that he can get a tattoo like Beckham. He nodded like he understood and ran off. A few minutes later he came back and asked, “Did you say does or does not?” I told him hair will always grow back but a tattoo is forever. We’ll talk about that later—way later.
