The Lie: Your haircut looks great.

The Truth: His haircut looks horrendous. I can’t believe how misshapen it is. It looks almost surreal, or cubist, as if Picasso was his stylist. Fortunately, he’s four years old, and couldn’t care less what his hair looks like. (I doubt, however, that I’ll be able to say the same for his mother.)

When Shauna learned that I had a son, she insisted I bring him in for a trim – a trim that turned into a full-scale mutilation. Figuring the first time had been a fluke, I brought him back in a month later, to further disastrous results. I can’t take him somewhere else, though, because I don’t want to risk offending Shauna; she does such a great job on my hair that I need to stay in her good graces. Why she cuts my hair well and butchers my son’s, however, is beyond me.

(Actually, maybe I just think she cuts my hair well because the shorter she makes it, the less glaring is the recession of my hairline. If that’s the case, then Troy’s got about fifteen years of abstract expressionist hair to enjoy before he joins his old man on the one-way train to Baldwinsville.)