My 3 year old niece said to me the other day:
“What’s wrong with your hair?”
“What do you mean?” I inquired.
I paused considering the source of the criticism. She means well, right? Perhaps someone put her up to this? That doesn’t seem likely. Three-year-olds can’t pull of this sort of stunt with that straight of a face.
“Like Jeff’s beard,” continued my niece. Her face remained as steady as ever. No sign of silliness here.
An uncomfortable pause ensued. Jeff is my Sister-in-law’s boyfriend who happens to sport a beard that isn’t far from attaining ZZ-Top stature. I was undeniably approaching Tribblecon 2 in the hair department, though the comparison seemed a bit exaggerated.
“Well,” I anxiously replied, “Uncle Greg hasn’t been to the hair stylist in a long time.”
It was an honest-enough response. However, children of this age can see BS through empty explanations like a hawk can see its prey through water.
“Why?” inquired my Niece in that 3-year-old broken record, calling you out sort of way. One word, delivered eloquently, challenging me – calling me out. Thrust on stage with everyone’s attention. Check, check, one, two. Ahem.
“Um,” I started, only to be cut off by Betsy as if on cue and rehearsed:
“Uncle Greg needs a hair cut, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah!” giggled my Niece.
My brow furrowed and my mood soured. Did Betsy put her up to this? Was I just now the mark in a coordinated assault to lodge a bullet of shame and doubt squarely in the middle of my temple? The aim was sure and the execution perfect.
Despite the source or intent of the inevitable circumstances – success was had in affording me the necessary motivation to deliver myself to my stylist for the taming of my mop.
I go in tomorrow at 11AM for a much needed haircut.