Of Beards

“Mom?”

I couldn’t open my eyes yet. A late night out on the town with my sisters – a.k.a. 11:30 – and I needed to recover. This did not deter my son, who had, as always, questions …

“Did you ever think about if Adam and Eve went to hell?”

Oh, I was not ready for these biblical tangles that early in the morning.

I walked out around ten minutes later, forgetting about that eight hours. Bær was mixing eggs in a glass bowl by the stove. Puck was standing on the opposite counter cracking his own egg while Bær explained software and programming to him.

We watched Bær drive down the road by four construction men in yellow vests pouring the neighbor’s driveway. One of the bearded gentlemen nodded to Bær as he passed …

“Look,” I showed Puck. “The beards nodded at each other.”

“Why?”

“Because beards always nod at each other.”

This was a new thought for Puck, and inspired him to think of other things, and of his own future…

“When I have a kid, Mom, I’m going to name him… Arizona Jacob Spoon. I mean … Redbeard the First! ‘Here, Redbeard! Come here, Redbeard!’”

So …

I cut Puck’s hair.

He chomped up another Puck-sized cucumber for dessert, then begged an apple off me.

“Not now, bud. I’ll give you one for breakfast.”

“Mom, an apple is not for breakfast. It’s for dessert.”

Yes. I’ve successfully deluded him.

That night I cut Bær’s hair, after he trimmed his beard way down. Or up … Puck collected the beard in a Ziploc bag – because he collects everything – until he even grossed himself out.