By Ben Tanzer

There was a sign. Well, if you believe in old wives’ tales that is. It is said, that a pregnant woman with heartburn is carrying a baby with a full head of hair and Debbie definitely had heartburn. The thing is, there are lots of old wives’ tales when it comes to pregnancy, and so the question is not whether any particular event or experience means anything, but whether you choose to believe that they do.

Debbie and I tended towards the non-believer state. Having a child is all about suspending belief. It’s safer that way, and easier, I mean think about, there’s no guarantee you will even get pregnant much less that it will go well. Nor is there any guarantee that your baby will be healthy or a boy or even have a full head of hair.

And yet there we were, in the hospital, about to have a baby. Push. Push. Push. Breathe. And it was going well you know. Push. Push. Push. Breathe. And then, oh my, the doctor said. Not in panic or anything, just oh my. Push. Push. Push. Breathe. What, what, we said, what is it. It’s the hair, she said, this baby has so much hair. It’s all I can see. Push. Push. Push. Breathe. We could not see it though, not at first any way. But soon it came forth, a tangled, dark mass of tendrils, splaying out with each push.

For some time after that the hair was all we had to go on. Push. Hair. Push. Hair. Push. Hair. Breathe. No hair. Push. Hair. Push. Wait, a head, a malformed head, well, no, not malformed, not exactly, just face down, and covered, covered with hair. It is mesmerizing. We don’t know what to do, or say, but then the baby rolls over, and the baby looks up at us. And it is beautiful, and it is a boy, our boy, Myles Levi Tanzer.

Myles is then whisked away. They spray his eyes until they are clear of junk and scrub his little body until its pink. They wash his hair and remove the muck. They swaddle him and bring him back to us. His hair is lighter now and spiky, shooting off in all directions. It’s wonderful and we cannot get enough of it.

It will fall out they tell us. Yeah, they say, my kid had hair like that, well maybe not quite like that, and certainly not so much, but he had some and it fell out. It grew back though, and it was lovely, like goose down, you’ll see.

So we wait, but the hair doesn’t go away, it just keeps growing. Soon it’s long and flowing, and then it gets lighter still, like honey. Little curls appear and Myles becomes our Samson. He looks like no other baby you have ever seen. Of course, he is no other baby. He’s ours.

People stop us on the street so they can touch his hair. It begins to crawl out from underneath his knit caps like the grungy alternative rockers on MTV. We love him and we love the hair. Before long though people want to know when we plan to get it cut. It’s too long now they say. You can barely see his face. It’s not so cute any more. But it is to us, and we’re so very attached to it. It’s his calling card. It’s what makes him Myles, and we’re cool with that, until, we’re not.

The hair once so beautiful becomes flat and tangled. Little cowlicks start to appear, as do swirls of hair on the back of his head that look like little birds’ nests. It’s messy and his face is getting lost. Debbie and I talk about getting it cut. There’s a kid’s place, Debbie says, they have racecars for children to sit in. It’s fun and cute and it’s time.

She’s right of course, and I know this, but I am so very resistant. I tell her how I am worried that he might cry when we put him in the seat. He’s just starting to do such things. I remind her that we will have to watch the time. I mean we don’t want to throw-him off his nap schedule, do we? Or put him through such a thing when he’s tired, right?

But there we are one morning just shy of his first birthday, and just around the corner from the hair salon. So we go, and there are chairs there shaped like racecars, and spaceships as well. And each chair faces its own television on which children’s videos are constantly playing. Elmo and Rolie Polie Olie. The Wiggles and the Teletubbies. There is also a toy room in the back. It has faux rock walls. It is meant to look like a cave and little kids run in and out of it, endlessly screaming and fighting.

Myles and I play in there until it is his turn and then they place him in his little car. He’s decked-out in a blue crew neck sweater and khakis and he looks like such a big boy today. Myles is all smiles, even as the kid in the rocket ship next to him starts to cry. I wonder if this will set Myles off as well, but he’s cool. The hairdresser places little purple barrettes in his hair. He starts chewing on her spray bottle. The kid keeps crying, but not Myles, he does not budge, or fuss. And so she starts. Snip. Snip. Snip. She adjusts his head. He’s fine. She checks for evenness. No problem. Snip. Snip. Snip. She moves the barrettes. Still fine. She sprays a little more water. He smiles. Snip. Snip. Snip. Myles is chilling, his hair falling away curl by curl, and floating to the ground like the fall leaves do on a windy day.

As the hair falls away Myles’ face emerges. Snip. Snip. Snip. And it’s no longer such a baby face. Not so round or plump any more. He has a distinct little chin. There are angles and points. You can see his eyes more clearly, and like my father's they are somewhat almond-shaped.

Tears begin to well up in my eyes. Snip. Snip. Snip. And I find myself terribly choked-up, my throat tightening just a bit. Snip. Snip. Snip. My chest starts to hurt a little as well and I turn away for a moment. Our baby is disappearing before our eyes. He’s becoming a toddler and I’m just not ready for that.

I look back at Myles as the hairdresser finishes the job. He looks at me, he smiles, and he lifts his arms up above his head so that I can pick him up. And I do, gladly, and sadly. I squeeze him to me as the tears flow down my cheeks. I get a waft of his intoxicating Myles smell and nuzzle his wonderful little neck. I don’t want to let go, but I know I have to.

Myles is going to leave us some day. We will awake one morning and he won’t be there. He won’t be talking to himself in his crib or clamoring for a hug or bottle. He will be off to college and work and a life that doesn’t revolve around us.

And it’s not that I’m not looking forward to the day when he starts dating or leaves home to explore the world. And it’s not that I don’t want him to become an adult or do all the amazing things I know he will do. It’s just that I’m not ready for it. He’s still our baby and I don’t want to lose him. Not yet any way.