Andy Richardson: A hair-raising time for my son – but I'd rather he have fun

‘Ought’ is the operative word. He ought to get a haircut because he looks like a ginger Simba – the cub from The Lion King. He does a pretty good ‘rwwooarrrr’ too, come to mention it. I think I might put him in for an audition for the stage play, he can pay ‘keep’ with his wages.

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But I digress.

He ought to get a haircut because at the ripe old age of 18 months he’s blissfully unaware that barbers exist. How would he know, he’s never been.

He ought to get a haircut because his fringe is in his eyes, like some sort of cornea-buffing hair-widget. And he ought to get a haircut because every time my wife takes him to baby group, the other parents assume he’s a girl and say: ‘Ah, isn’t she lovely. She’s got great hair, you know’.

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‘Yes, Mrs Perfect Parent, you’re quite right. And we really ought to stop her/him listening to The Sex Pistols, too, it’s bad for her/his ears. And you’re quite right, CBeebies is more appropriate than a full-length screening of The Godfather. We must tear her/him away from her/his Marlon Brando fixation’.

So ‘ought’ is the key word.

‘Ought’, however, has no place in Simba’s life. Simba can grow his mane as long as he likes because his dad is as likely to listen to the advice of baby group mums as he is to eat a Mattessons turkey rasher for breakfast. Sorry, I just can’t. You can call me a snob if you like, but rashers are made with bacon, not turkey, so I’m out.

His dad is as likely to say ‘get your hair cut, son, and polish your shoes while you’re at it – I know you’re only 18-months-old, but it’s time you started pulling your weight, shape up or ship out’ as he is to speak Western Slavic at the local chip shop. Although I might try that the next time I order battered sausage and chips, just to throw the woman behind the counter.

‘Salt and vinegar?’

“Ne, dekuji, doktor mi rekl, že to bylo špatné pro mou krevní tlak.”

Ha. What would she say then?

My son won’t be learning about barbers any time soon because he’s too busy climbing, jumping, laughing and doing whatever-the-heck-he-likes-as-long-as-he’s-safe to worry about things like that.

He’s got trains to connect with magnets, books to read, girls to stand close to and smile at – it’s sooooo cute when he does that – and a myriad other adventures to have. He’s got grandparents to visit, a football to kick and a Western Slavic dictionary to memorise so that he can confuse the woman at the local chip shop.

Besides, if his hair had grown beyond the length of his ears – at the side – not the fringe, then I would take him to the barbers. It’s at a length that’s cool – or, ‘reem’, as Joey Essex would have it. He looks like a pint-sized mod. So rather than whisk him off to the barber, I’ll be taking him to the local branch of Pretty Green, Ben Sherman or Fred Perry, to deck him out in suitable threads.

But enough of my ramblings. I’m off to the barbers for a two-back-and-sides. My barnet’s in a right two-and-eight.