Never to have grandchildren

Dad remembers a promise I made during my last trip home, that I would learn the trade of cutting my own hair from him. I was hoping he would have forgotten.

Enthusiastically, he whipped out his electronic hair mower, and instructed me, "Place it close to your scalp and mow, in all directions." I protested: I could barely see without my contacts, and I certainly can't see the back of my head. He insisted, "Don't need vision!" As a visual guide, I printed a picture of myself, which was taken immediately after a good trip to the barber. He said, "Don't need. You wouldn't look anything like that in the end!" I mumbled something about a date next week and it being his fault if he never has any grandchildren. That gave him pause.

Hair grows back right? I mowed. At first with great trepidation. And then confidence bloomed, and hair fell around me as a curtain of rain. I let my amused sisters and mother take care of the finer details, and the back of my head. Nun was particularly vicious, and delighted in tiny, energetic swipes; once I thought she drew blood. I am reminded of days when Mom would cut my hair, when my Chinese tutor kindly quipped, "Xiang gou yao de!"

Dad excused himself in the middle of the operation to send Lae for her Halloween party; this year she is a Goth. (Nun is disappointed that Lae didn't pick a more dangerous theme; I tell Nun she is projecting her own desire to cast off society's conventions. She admits to wanting to walk around Orchard Road as a vagina. It seems she is weighed down heavily by her job in Learning Lab these days.) When Dad finally saw the final product, he beamed with satisfaction. I'm taking the mower back with me to Princeton.