by Sara Peterson-Davis   

I have two of the most vocal children that ever walked the face of the earth.

From their earliest days they never had a problem vocalizing, and as they’ve grown they’ve never hesitated to let me know exactly what they wanted.

That is until their rear ends hit the vinyl of that hydraulic chair at the hair salon. Then they become, what can only be described as monosyllabic.

I bring up the subject because it’s time for spring haircuts. Over the past couple of weeks I’ve heard a steady stream of how my kids want their hair. Long, short, layered, permed and waved, the list goes on and on.

I have heard enough to make those snippy stylists on Bravo channel’s Shear Genius run for the supply closets. Have I taken notes or searched for pictures that resemble their perfectly coiffured visions? Nah. What’s the point?

All the way to the salon I will hear all about the styles they’re going to order up. But once they walk through that door they quiet down. Once the stylist calls their name and they sit in that chair, they clam up entirely.

“So what are we doing today?” the stylist will ask.

Silence accentuated by a non-committal shoulder scrunch.

“Well,” I will finally wade into the one-sided conversation. “I think she wants it cut to the shoulders with a bit of layering on the side. Is that right?

Silence interrupted only by a faint “uh huh.” My daughter will look at me as if she’s never seen me before in her life.

The stylist will look at me like I’m one of those helicopter moms, who doesn’t let her kids do anything for themselves. I’ll just ignore it.

Thinking that I might be the probIem, I once stayed in the waiting area and sent my son back by himself. He went in with the intention of getting his hair cut short on the sides, while keeping it long on top. He came out with his head completely buzzed.

“What happened?” I asked stunned by the dramatic change in plan.

“I don’t know, I just decided I’d try this,” he replied.

“Did you tell her what it was you wanted?”

“Well, sort of.”

I guess they don’t learn how to translate grunts and shoulder shrugs in beauty school.

His sister once went in with intentions of getting bangs and layers and came one with a trim that could only be measured in millimeters.

I didn’t bother to ask.

So I will go back and facilitate the haircut process. Translating and taking the heat for appearing to be a complete control freak.

But this time I think I will have one request for the stylist.

“I could really use a quiet evening. Do you think you could drop a couple of those chairs by my house for the kids?”