How It Feels to Watch Your Son Getting His Hair Cut
In the battered barbershop chair, Faris sits slightly camouflaged and crumpled, as though he is a mystery even to himself.
At no time did I contemplate the realities of parenthood as much as I did on that afternoon when, during a brief moment alone together, I brushed my lips against his now-naked head and whispered my affections. With me was this amazing, miraculous person, and I had helped bring him into the world.
Having a child changes you completely, but most of all it makes you love in a more profound way. I looked at Faris and knew that I wanted to protect him, to pick him up in his low moments and tell him everything would be okay. I wanted to tell him stories from my childhood, share with him my fandom of Tottenham Hotspur, and introduce him to the music of Oasis. Most of all, though, I wanted him to know that he was loved.
More in this series
Maniacal clowns and pale men with eyes in their palms are the worst my son has to fear in life. Or so I wish.
I was thin-skinned as a child, with an ego that could put bruised peaches to shame.