"What? Cut Baylee's hair? Are you crazy?" Brian's voice was pitched in disbelief.
"Dude, it's getting him beat up at school, I'm tellin' ya, the kid's told me everyday this week about some lil prick down there named Randy that's making fun of him for looking like an under-gelled Flock of Seagulls reject."
Brian slammed the fridge door shut. He felt hot in the face. Part of him knew that at one point he would've laughed at Nick's reference, the other part of him knew that Leighanne would not have appreciated Nick suggesting they cut the crop of hair that she'd worked so hard to cultivate over Baylee's nine years of existence.
"Brian," Nick said, voice low and serious, "He wants it cut. You're lucky he hasn't taken the Crayola safety scissors to it yet. Seriously, he's been begging me all week to talk to you about it."
"Why doesn't he talk to me about it himself?" Brian demanded.
Nick could literally hear the dishes hitting the table as Brian set it angrily. "Um well this is a shot in the dark," Nick said, "But maybe because he was afraid you'd tweak out?"
Brian realized he was slamming things and stopped. He stared at the silverware in his hands and took a deep breath. "They really called him a Flock of Seagulls reject?"
"Yeah..." Nick said with a laugh, "Amazing kids his age know what Flock of Seagulls is, isn't it?"
"Lord have mercy," Brian groaned, sinking into a chair. "My kid's a freaking 80s band reject."
"If it helps any, they also said he looks like he stuck his head in a light socket, called him Baybay the Clown, and several other cruel jokes including one about transplanting pubic hair."
"What'd you say the kid's name was?" Brian demanded, a surge of anger rising up in him.
"Uh-uhh," Nick said, shaking his head, "Dude, my mom used to go marchin' down to the school every time Aaron had a bully call him a name and he never learned to fight for himself. Consequently, my brothers a pussy. You are not doing that to Baylee."
"But-"
"No. You leave him be. I told him how to throw a good punch and --"
"You what?"
"Dude, I'm telling you, your kid's gonna be fine. Just bring him to get a fucking hair cut, will you?"
Brian sighed.
Baylee had said probably a grand total of five words to Brian since the incident at the school on Monday. It was Friday night when they were sitting in the kitchen eating chicken and pasta salad when Brian put down his fork and said, "I was talking to Nick earlier."
Baylee stabbed some noodles on the end of his fork and chewed them, not looking up at his father.
"He says you want a hair cut."
Baylee's eyes raised, though he didn't turn his face. He waited, practically holding his breath.
"He says the kids at school called you a Flock of Seagulls reject."
Baylee waited.
"I was thinking we should go get your head sheared this afternoon. What do you think?"
Baylee's eyes widened. "You're serious?" he asked. When Brian nodded he gasped, "You promise?" Brian nodded again and Baylee launched out of his chair, rounded the table and wrapped his arms around Brian's neck. "Thank you," he wheezed.
After lunch, Brian and Baylee went to the mall and while Baylee was in getting his hair cut, Brian was poking around the small style store, looking at random hair care products, bored out of his mind. He noticed a small fish tank in the corner and bent down to stare at the gold fish it contained. He heard the door jingle behind him.
"Hey can I help you?" the cashier called to the new arrivals.
"Hey, we're here for mani-pedis," came a woman's voice. "Molly Jeffers and Emma Harris."
Brian choked. Loudly. He sputtered and backed away from the goldfish, hitting a small display of nail polishes, sending several colorful bottles flying to the floor. One - an orange one - shattered on impact and Brian jumped forward. He ducked away from the display as the sales associate rounded the aisle of shampoos between himself and the register, and he quickly rushed back into the connecting room, where a young guy with a Spanish accent was cutting Baylee's hair.
Brian could feel his heart slamming in his chest.
"Are you okay?" Baylee asked, looking at Brian in the mirror.
"Yeah-huh," Brian gasped, nodding. He put his hands on his hips, then stared down at the hair in pools around Baylee's chair. He looked up, really looking at his son.
Baylee's hair was short.
He felt his stomach twist. "G'Lord where's the rest room?" he asked the Spanish accent guy. The guy pointed and Brian darted for it. He could feel the chicken and pasta salad threatening to make a reappearance.
"Sorry about that," muttered the sales clerk, returning to Emma and Molly after mopping up the orange nail polish. "I dunno what that was."
Molly laughed, "It's okay. We were down for a two o'clock."
Emma wandered down the aisle and peeked into the styling room. There'd been a time when she'd wanted to cut hair for a living. She remembered her fetish for hair in high school. She'd met Brian that way after all - running her hair through his hair at band practice one day for no apparent reason at all. She'd been mortified, but Brian had confronted her in the hall the next day and demanded he get to return the experience by running his hands through her hair, too.
She closed her eyes thinking of the moment, her hand traveling up to her neck and touching the strands of hair that snuck out from beneath it.
"G'Lord," she heard, "Where's the rest room?"
She opened her eyes and realized she was staring at Brian's back. Baylee sat in the chair in front of the mirror, happily getting his hair trimmed, and there was Brian. Her eyes widened, her heart nearly stopped. The man cutting Baylee's hair pointed and Brian started to turn and Emma quickly ducked backwards, slamming into Molly as Brian rushed by, covering his mouth and disappeared into the bathroom.
"Let's go," Emma hissed.
Molly glowered, "Talk to him."
"He's throwing up," Emma pointed out.
"When he's finished, then," Molly demanded.
"No! This isn't the right time," Emma replied. She tried to push around Molly.
"I am so not giving up my mani-pedi because you're too much of a baby to talk to your husband."
Emma's face reddened. "Shut up. Don't say that. He's not."
"Technically, Emma-Lou Harris," Molly replied, "He is."
"Technically, Molly Jeffers, he isn't."
"Excuse me."
Both women jumped at the sound of Baylee's voice. They both looked down at him. "W-what?" Emma stammered.
"Did you see where my dad went?" Baylee asked.
Emma pointed at the bathroom door.
"Hey thanks lady," Baylee said, marching in the direction of the door.
Emma looked into Molly's eyes. "I'm leaving."
"You can't. I drove you here."
"There's a whole mall to wander around," Emma responded, "I'll be wandering until you're done with your mani-pedi." She turned and hurried out of the hair salon as the toilet flushed and Baylee knocked on the restroom door.
