January 23, 2013: Tales of a Bad Haircut

My handsome son when his hair saw better days

I just got a call from my ex-husband. "Is Ben at your house?"

"No." <pause>. He went on to tell me that Ben had called him this morning, complaining of illness. According to Ben, he was a prisoner to the bathroom and unable to go to school. The phone call to me related to confusion on whose house Ben was at. Certainly not mine, since I had been working from home all day. And not a peep on my cell from my wonder child #2.

Hmmmm....my bullshit meter went off. Something was not right with this story. The story I  heard and the evidence I observed were completely conflicting (for the record, I have a secret desire to be Sandy: C.S.I. Agent and think I would be quite good at it!)

After hearing Ben's tale as told to me by his father and then tracing back my steps and observations of the morning, my bullshit meter was off the chart. Not a word was spoken by Ben complaining of pain or ailments at 7:15 when we were all rolling out of the house. When I asked what he wanted for breakfast and he eagerly asked for a banana, there were no hints of stomach pain that mysteriously showed up less than an hour later. I noted the time 7:35 as Grant and I pulled out of the driveway and made the mental note that Ben was cutting it close. His school start time is 7:45  with a 5 minute drive to school (on a good day).

Grant was safely delivered to school at 7:50 and with a quick trip to Starbucks, I arrived home to the aftermath of Ben, but without his physical presence. Within that mere 35 minutes since I had left my home, every light was left on and I could see the remnants of a Ben Lane fire drill. In the bathroom was a surprise pile of hair and clippers thrown to the side. Hmmmm...

After a call to Ben's girlfriend's mom to verify her whereabouts of the day and a call back from the M.I.A child who had since been located at his dad's house, the story was suddenly falling together and my bullshit meter correct. I called his dad back to share my suspicions only to find that he reached the same answer: Ben tried to throw in a hasty haircut (sense of time is a great weakness for this sweet child) before school with the end result; a bad hair cut. In his brother's words (our best material witness), "it was a butcher job".

Evidently he drove to school, panicked, and then called his dad complaining of stomach pains. He "thought they were temporary" and he could return to school later. After driving to his dad's, he begged his older brother, Zach, to correct his wrong. No such luck for Ben as Zach was running out to door for work as well. So the "stomach ache" got worse and the hair, no better.

According to Zach, Ben complained of a clipper malfunction at my house, thus the butcher job on his lovely head. Mother's literal interpretation: He was in a hurry and pushed down too hard. Overly exerted pressure on clippers results in the blade falling off. This results in going from a  #2 (preferred clipper blade) haircut to a no guard haircut (un-preferred shave to the scalp).

So mystery solved. Both Scott and I got a laugh out of it as we envisioned Ben trying to work his way around this morning debacle. Neither of us could really blame him on the panic attack. Too bad he couldn't wear a hat to school or doo-rag???  Hmmmm....