As I battle with the daily challenge of cleanliness versus peace (when it comes to hair and fingernails), I’m reminded of the preparations for the return-to-school haircut.

Term 3 was looming. Littlest Wombat’s hair was like a bird’s nest – literally. Just long enough for hanks to be sticking out like stray twigs. Just uncombed- unkempt – enough to be forming its own sculpture on top of his scalp. Sufficiently unwashed ( I feel deeply that this reflects on me, although I know it’s not that simple) that it could hold its own shape without the use of “product” (And for any word nerds among you, “unkempt” originally meant “uncombed”, from an old English word “kemb” meaning “comb”.)

Littlest Wombat hates having his hair washed, or even combed. He reverts to his “symbol gander” identity – “That shampoo’s not safe for symbol ganders”. Or worse, screaming “You’re poisoning me!” Admittedly, he’s not alone in disliking having his hair brushed or combed. Lots of people don’t like the feeling of bristles scraping against their scalp, or the pulling sensation as the comb or brush snags on a knot. I totally get that, even though personally I don’t mind the rough scalp massage I get from a vigorous brush.

Why don’t you comb or brush his hair more gently? I hear you say. Ah, but I do, is my reply. The lengths I go to in order to avoid the slightest tug on his hair seem utterly ridiculous when I am short of time and my patience is dwindling. I take a small amount of hair, hold it so that the brushing won’t pull on his scalp, and have his hair placed over my hand so that it’s actually brushed onto my hand, not his head or neck. It can take five minutes or more – presuming even that he stays still during the “torture”, as he calls it.

I’ve tried the health aspect, the comfort aspect (combed hair gets less knots) and the less understandable social aspect (well, it’s a sign of self care) – “In your society,” comes the heated answer.

At his former school (yes, that old chestnut again), the boys were allowed to have long hair, so at least I didn’t need to run the gauntlet of haircuts (outside lice season – and that’s another story). At his new school, boys need to have their hair off their face and collar – providing him with another reason to complain about how we have made his life miserable by changing schools.

So, a fortnight before term 2 ended, I started the process of preparing him for a holiday haircut.

“You know, sweetheart, you have to get your hair cut over the holidays. It’s very knotty. And you’ve been scratching a bit lately.” Eeewww… I deliberately try to avoid the word “long”, as this will just bring recriminations raining down on me about the change of schools. Better to try another way in.

He grunts a grumpy, unintelligible response.

“Well, you can have a choice.” Follow expert advice, Jennie. Let him feel that he has a bit of power in a situation where he feels completely disempowered. “I can cut your hair, if you like, at home. With the clippers. Zzzzzhhhoom. All over! Then you don’t need to worry about combing or brushing or anything!” While I doubt he’ll take this option, it’s worth a try. Save all the angst associated with brushing for another term.

“What’s the other choice?” he mutters.

False cheeriness. “Or, you could go to the hairdresser next to the pet shop” – he loves patting the animals in the pet shop – “where they have hot chocolates and jelly beans!”

“I’ll go there.”

I revisited this conversation with him in the last week of term, and then again in the first week of the holidays. One day, out shopping, we found ourselves outside the hairdressers.

“Why don’t you get your hair cut now?” I suggested. “Get it over and done with?”

“No. I’d rather wait.”

“OK, that’s your choice,” I told him. “But we need to get it done early in the week, because we’ll be away later on.”

The week flew by, as holiday weeks do, and all of a sudden, it was Monday in the second week. I ran through the week’s timetable in my mind and realised that this was the best day to hit the hairdressers. Taking a deep breath, I approached Littlest Wombat.

“We need to get that hair cut done today, sweetheart,” I told him. “We’re busy tomorrow, Maddy’s coming on Wednesday then we’re going away on Thursday.”

“But I don’t want to get my hair cut,” he wailed. Here we go again. Back to square one. Actually, it felt like negative square one – if there’s such a thing. His negative emotions hit the accelerator hard. “It’s all your fault that I even have to get my hair cut at all! If you hadn’t made me go…”

I cut off this line of talk, picked him up and moved the conversation to the bathroom.Train Wombat was still asleep, and I didn’t want him contributing acerbic observations to the conversation if he was woken by his brother’s hysterics. Plonking Littlest Wombat on the bathroom bench, I reminded him of our previous conversations. Plural. And of what he had agreed. His memory was as elusive as a politician’s at a Senate inquiry. I felt my patience fast deserting me. For heaven’s sake – it was just a hair cut. His whole class could have had their hair cut in the time I’ve spent negotiating this with my son. And the girls could probably have had cornrows plaited. Grrr.

“Well, sweetheart, if you’re choosing” – “choosing”, mind! – not to go to the hairdressers, that’s fine. I’ll cut your hair here. I’ll just get the clippers.”

“Nooooooo!”

Another deep breath.”Okay. You have ‘til 10:30 to decide. At the hairdressers with the hot chocolate and jelly beans, or at home.”

I walked off, and left him in the bathroom. He followed me out, a walking rain cloud dripping negative vibes as he stomped along. “Fine,” he grumped. “I’ll go up the street.”

“Good decision, sweetheart. Maybe you could have a hold of Peter Rabbit at the pet shop before you go in.” Thinking – that might calm him down a bit.

We walk up the street, Dancing Wombat and I, with Littlest Wombat running ahead. I’d meet him at the pet shop. Dancing Wombat headed off to the news agency to get her favourite New Idea and Woman’s Day. She’d meet us at the hairdressers.

It didn’t take too long to extract Littlest Wombat from the pet shop. The hairdressers was right next door and right now – luckily – we were the only customers.

I tried to explain what was needed to Akiko, the lovely stylist, using that diplomatic language that parents often need to employ in front of children. You know the one – where a “slight trim” means “significantly shorter” and “he’s not that keen on hair cuts” translates as “he’s threatened to run away from home if he gets his hair cut again”! As we moved from the cutting chair to the washing chair, Littlest Wombat saw his chance and made a dash for the door. Blast. Sadly, years of practice with this sort of thing have given me fast reflexes, and I caught hold of him. Paste on the smiley face, Jennie.

“Come on, sweetheart. Time to get your hair washed.”

The lovely stylist had already tried to explain to Mr Messy that regular combing and washing would make it much easier to look after his hair. Everything she suggested we have already tried, but it can be helpful coming from another person.

So, over to the basins. Not before he tried to make for the door again. SO he stepped up the resistance. Wouldn’t put his head down. Wouldn’t lie flat. It was a Mexican stand-off.

I apologised again to Akiko, left Dancing Wombat in a corner with her magazines and took Littlest Wombat outside for a word. Several, actually. Of the stern variety. Nup, more than that. I was getting really cross and fed up.

“You are breaking your word,” I told him.

“I didn’t give my word,” he responded.

“Yes you did. You agreed to have your hair cut at the hairdressers. How can I trust what you say?

He sulked. I thought. I’d exhausted my armoury of positive incentives. Now I had to open up the supply of threats.

“If you don’t get your hair cut now, I’m going to cancel Maddy’s visit on Wednesday.” He looked at me wordlessly, sullenly. The threat was sinking in. We went back inside the hairdressers and he stood, still refusing to go over to the basin. Then made a bolt for the door again.

I ostentatiously took out my phone and began a text. “I’m just texting Maddy’s mum.” I began to read aloud. “Hi. I’m really sorry, but I have to cancel Maddy’s visit on Wednesday…” I looked at him. “I haven’t pressed “Send” yet”.”

Looking mutinous, he walked over the the basins, and sat in the seat. I walked over next to him, just to make sure he was lying down properly.

“Did you press “Send”?” He asked me.

“No, I haven’t – yet”, I said.

“Good – because if you had, I wouldn’t have got my hair cut.”

I ignored him, and took a seat near Dancing Wombat, deliberately avoiding staying close to him, listening attentively, but letting Akiko take over.

She did well. There were no screams, no yells, and no fleeing to the door again. When he was led to the cutting chair, he mutely stretched out his hand for my phone. I had promised that he could use it while his hair was being cut. While I think that sometimes “screens” are overused to distract children, they can be very useful. As in this situation.

Combing and cutting, all was accomplished with minimal fuss. Akiko beckoned me over to observe progress. Using as few words as possible, I tried to indicate that a shorter cut would be better – hopefully then we could avoid a return visit until the next holidays.

Shorter she went. The phone battery died, and I replaced it with my iPad (also on low battery!) Engrossed in the screen, Littlest Wombat took no interest in the mirror. Just as well, I thought, as his ears and neck emerged and I could see his eyes once again.

Finally, it was done. I made a brief comment – as much for the hairdressers benefit as anything else, as I knew the shorn sheep would only make some disparaging remark in reply – which he did, while rumpling his nice neat hair as he slid out of the chair. He gained the coveted chocolates while I paid and thanked Akiko yet again for her perseverance.

I had been planning to take Littlest Wombat for a drink afterwards, but that was off the cards now. Much as I know he finds the whole situation difficult, I believe that somehow he needs to learn what behaviours is are acceptable and what aren’t. I wasn’t punishing him – he still had the chocolate at the hairdressers.And he deserved this. Once he had finally, grudgingly accepted that the haircut was happening one way or another, he did stay still and was compliant. But I saw no need to be overly effusive in my praise. I am wary of setting up unrealistic expectations.

So, the hair cut is done for another term. Now for his fingernails…

Until next time, Happy Wombatting!