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When he was little, he cried in protest while I cut his hair. This time, he asked for another round with the electric razor – and the tears were mine
My son had beautiful, thick hair. He got that from his mother’s side. Two weeks ago, I cut it all off.
For the past two years, I had the pleasure of meeting my son once a week to study Talmud and Jewish thought. It was, without doubt, the highlight of my week. I would visit him at his yeshiva, filled with young men and a few older guys like me—teachers, learners, and sometimes other fathers. We learned Torah, laughed, debated, told stories, and too often discussed the political situation. Sometimes we even discussed our lives. There are few pleasures greater than watching your children grow into adulthood. And maybe few fears greater than watching them grow up.
I’m a middle-aged man, aging quicker every year, my hair, or what’s left of it, greying and falling out. My son’s hair seemed, Harry Potter-like, never to stop growing. When he was young, and much to his chagrin, I would cut it. Until he got old enough and his older sisters were insistent enough that he started going to a proper barber. He never liked cutting his hair, and honestly, his thick, wavy locks were too precious to waste.
