Oops! Oh God!

(I wouldn’t be much of a host if I didn’t partake in this calling for self humiliation articles, so here is mine.  Enjoy yourself at my expense. - C)

Even though it’s been nineteen years, I still don’t like to talk about “The Incident”. 

That’s what I call it too: The Incident.   Simply mentioning The Incident at a family gathering garners the same responses from the players involved on the day it occurred back in the fall of 1988: apologies from my mother, laughter from my older brother, and a beet red face from me, a mixture of anger and embarrassment as I try to avoid the discussion altogether .  Looking back on it now I can see why my brother laughed, after all, it was funny, especially if it happened to someone else.  Even moreso when that someone else is your younger brother. 

What makes The Incident stand out so much from other embarrassing moments in my life is it occurred during a pivotal time stage of development in my life.  It happened in a time when small matters such as this had the gravity to bring about the destruction of the world and all of its inhabitants.  Yes, I’m talking about Jr. High.

It was mid October of my eighth grade year.  It was also a Thursday; though other details have faded over the years, I still vividly remember that The Incident occurred on a Thursday.  I remember this for two reasons.  Reason 1: I was a member of the Jr. High football team, and all of our games were on Thursday afternoon.  Reason 2:  There was a school dance the next day, and school dances always occurred on Fridays.  The game and the dance were also integral factors as to why The Incident happened.

I had just returned home from the last game of the season, an away match against our hated rival from the next town over.  As I remember it, they were bigger, played dirty, and hadn’t lost a game yet this season (these details tend to get exaggerated over the years).  It was a tight game in the first half, but we poured on the points in the third quarter and beat them rather handily in their own backyard.  The bus ride home was quite joyous.  We were kings, returning victorious from the lair of the dragon (although technically, they were the Wildcats).  As kings we expected the dance the following afternoon to be a celebration in our honor, so everyone planned to wear their jersey’s to school the next day assuming our moms would wash them for us.  Even if they didn’t we probably would have worn them anyways.

Thankfully, my mom wasn’t resistant to the idea of washing the jersey, but I wasn’t happy with just that.  My hair was also getting a bit ragged, so I asked my mom to cut it for the dance.  Not that there was a specific girl I was trying to impress; basically the Jr. High dance was little more than a group of kids milling around on the gym floor while the hired DJ played music.  No one danced except for slow songs, and the team pretty much just huddled in a group on the bleachers.

Initially she said no.  After all, it was getting late in the evening and with the game that afternoon there was still the matter of a late dinner to prepare.  I begged. I pleaded. Please?  Eventually she said yes.

Note: my mother isn’t a professional hair stylist, but cutting hair is just one of those services mom provides.  My hair was (and still is) a jumble of cowlicks, and my mom was really the only person who knew how to cut it the way I liked.  I’ve since found other stylists capable of managing my hair, but at the time I needed it done, only mom would do.

I gathered all the hair cutting necessities into the dining room:  the scissors, the clippers, a comb, and the old bedsheet to wrap around my neck to catch the falling hair.  I could hear the dryer behind me, tumbling my jersey and hand picked pants that I intended to wear to the dance after school tomorrow.  I closed my eyes and eased my head back into my mom’s hands as she ran a comb through my hair and turned on the clippers.

Even though I refer to the incident as The Incident, to my brother it actually goes by another name.  This name is derived from a combination of  two phrases you never want to hear when having your hair cut.  One of those phrases is “Oops!” and the other is “oh God!”  Hearing either of those while the buzz of the clippers hovers next to your ear is enough to make your heart jump into your throat.  In a matter of two seconds after my mom turned on the clippers, I had heard them both.

“Oops! Oh God!”

“What? What?!?” I said.

I hopped up from the chair, spilling the bedsheet that had been draped around my neck onto the dining room floor.  Behind me, my mom was apologizing.  I needed a mirror, fast.

My older brother, who had been watching television in the family room otherwise uninterested in the events of the evening, turned to see what the fuss was about.  I locked eyes with him for a brief second.  My eyes wide and frantic, I saw his gaze drift up to the hairline just above my temple.

He started laughing.  It was more than laughter actually; he literally doubled over, falling off the couch, pointing at me and laughing harder than I thought humanly possible.  My mom scolded him, but it only made it worse.  In between laughs he mimicked those three little words you never want to hear during a haircut:

“Oops! Oh God!” he cackled.

“Shut up! It’s not funny!” I screamed.  That only made him laugh harder. 

Finally I found a mirror.  Right above the temple on the right side of my scalp, my mother had laid the clipper right against the skin and created a two inch divot in my hair.  I had one of those “This can’t be happening” moments as I stared at the reflection, tracing my fingers up to the spot on my head, feeling bare skin where hair once grew. 

“No, no, no, no,” I repeated as I stared into the mirror, the image of my brother pointing and laughing loomed in the corner of the reflection.

My mom was still apologizing in between her threats to spank my older brother.  The pride I felt from the football victory just hours earlier was completely deflated.  Instead of the game, in my mind this surely would be the talk of the dance tomorrow.  This was the first moment where I honestly felt as if life as I knew it was ruined.

The haircut was over, even though my mom pleaded to let her continue to at least try to blend it in.  Of course, each request to continue the cut was punctuated by my brother in the background, repeating “Oops! Oh God!” and laughing hysterically.  He was eventually sent to his room, but I could still hear him.

Even though it was her mistake, I really wasn’t mad at my mom for shaving a bald spot in my scalp; I blamed myself more than anything.  I eventually fell into a hug, letting her know that I forgave her and disappeared into the bathroom to figure out how to hide what was unhideable: an inch wide, two inch long bald spot at the edge of my scalp just above the temple.  I tried combing my hair over it, but at best half of the damage was still visible. 

Eventually I came up with a plan to explain the odd lack of hair should anyone notice it.  My plan was to ignore it unless someone else brought it up.  For those that noticed, I told them that during the game I managed to cut my head, and my parents took me to the hospital for stitches after the game.  Obviously they had to shave the area before they could stitch the wound.  Of course, an observant person would notice that there were no stitches, but that was my story.  Today it sounds foolish, but to a desperate eighth grader whose world was crumbling around him it was my only hope of surviving "The Incident". 

The next day, I caught a few people staring at my new haircut.  Those who asked about it were treated to my well rehearsed stitches story; whether they believed it or not I don’t know.  Some didn’t ask, but I made a conscious note every time their eyes drifted up towards the spot on my temple.  I found myself tilting my head to the right a lot when talking to people.  On the bus I made it a point to sit on the right side of the bus in the farthest seat back right next to the window.  It took a few weeks for the area to grow over; thankfully my hair was really light at the time.

Although “The Incident” was one of the more embarrassing moments of my young life, it was probably one of the funniest for my brother.  It was a needling point for him to get under my skin, as if older brothers needed such ammunition to torture a younger sibling.  For weeks (weeks? Try years) after "The Incident", those three little words (Oops! Oh God!) still manage to produce hysterical laughing fits in him, especially when he’s the one saying them. 

Though looking at his gradually thinning hairline, I think I’ll have the last laugh.