The Little Red Hen a Bald Spot and an Angel from Chatsworth

It wasn’t exactly easy getting to this big day.

The biggest issue? I was pressed for time, and Little Guy’s hair was getting so long he was starting to look a bit hippy-ish. The place I normally take him for haircuts had been closed for two weeks for renovations, and I was starting to get desperate.

So I took him to Super Cuts. Yeah, yeah, I know…a real momma would have trimmed and buzzed a perfect little haircut right there in her own kitchen while homemade lasagna baked in the oven and a fresh salad was tossed with organic olive oil and fig vinaigrette. But not I.

I’ve been a parent for over 23 years, and I know better than to cut anyone’s hair. Ask my oldest son—he will gladly tell you a sad hair story with gusto (and maybe a bit of bitterness) even after 14 years.

Super Cuts was oddly empty, aside from a handsome young guy getting his hair trimmed by a cute blond stylist. (young love) We waited and waited, and finally, it was Little Guy’s turn. I jumped at the chance for a few minutes of peace and settled into my current mommy-break novel while he got what I assumed was a typical little boy’s haircut.

I looked up when I noticed the stylist whispering with another colleague. I figured they were still gossiping about the handsome single man who had just left.

I was wrong.

For some reason, one of her trimmer attachments fell off mid-cut. Poor Little Guy was now sporting an extra-large, egg-sized bald spot on the side of his head.

She apologized and suggested blending it through. I looked at her and said, If you blend it, he’ll be bald.

I was upset. His starring role in The Little Red Hen was the very next day! I had visions of sixth-grade bullies teasing him and his best friends, leaving him for more interesting friends—with hair.

We left Super Cuts after they told me it wasn’t necessary to pay them this time. (As if I’d be coming back next week. Ha!)

I immediately drove to CVS Pharmacy—because that’s what any good momma would do. I looked around for miracles. Surely they sold “spray-on hair,” right? I’d seen at least one infomercial with that nifty hair miracle.

I was starting to get edgy, and then my angel arrived.

This was not your run-of-the-mill angel. I’m pretty sure she was a Chatsworth artist (if you know California, you’ll understand). She was wearing alarming shades of purple around her eyes, and her eyelashes were unbelievably curly and coal black.

She looked at me and said, Just paint the hair back in. He’ll be just fine. Then she winked at Little Guy. (Yikes.)

She took me around the cosmetics aisle like she owned the place, pulling packages of eyeliner and mascara in every imaginable color. Then she grabbed a bottle of “will-never-wash-out” hairspray and declared, That will do it.

We drove home, and I went straight to my office to dust off some scrapbook tools that hadn’t seen daylight in two years. Back in my scrapbooking-crazed days, I bought every gadget imaginable, and I knew there had to be a magical blending brush in that mess somewhere—and there was.

It took what felt like an hour (really, about five minutes) to recreate Little Guy’s hair. Three colors of eyeliner and a stiff thistle brush later, you could almost not tell anything had gone wrong.

Yep, the angel and I saved Little Guy’s first live performance. He walked on that stage without looking like the odd duck (or hen).

He was happy and had the time of his life. And in the end—despite bald spots and a slightly frazzled mommy—that’s all that matters.

Wishing you all a wonderful Sunday and a magical Monday!