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— white-blonde pigtails and eyelashes, a nose too big for my face, and braces too big for my mouth. I was fascinated with 14-year-old boys back then. They seemed mysterious and worldly, yet when I was near them, all I could do was giggle uncontrollably.
But the son sitting beside me, who fared better in the looks department than I had at his age, was not so mysterious. He was just a boy who missed his brothers now, more than ever, and was about to shed the hair that made him a part of his middle-school pack. His hair defined him — the guitar player, the funny and friendly guy, the skateboarder, and the ladies man.
When we arrived at the barber shop, John’s tortured expression gave way to a face-breaking smile as Sixto and his staff welcomed him with applause and slaps on the back.
“Welcome back, buddy,” he said, whipping out a black plastic drape; “Looks like we’ve got to give that helmet of yours a little style!” John explained the reason for his visit while Sixto nodded sympathetically, then suggested a plan of action.
“We’ll do it in steps,” he said. “Let’s start with a mullet,” and large clumps of hair fell with applause and laughter from everyone in the shop, including John.
“Do you have your cell phone, Mom?” John said, “We’ve got to take pictures of this!” The sandy tufts kept falling off, and after a while, when his hair was very short but not yet a buzz, John stopped laughing, and looked a little sick. Sixto drew back the razor.
“You just ask the guy in charge of the play if this is short enough,” he said, “and if isn’t, you come back and I’ll take care of you.” He put gel on John’s bangs, making the most of this traumatic situation, and stood back.

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