Snip, snip. How we left haircut trauma on the floor

By Anchel Krishna

When my daughter Syona (above) was little, her hair was fine and slightly wavy. Then it grew into curls.

Those curls are gorgeous. But they are also complicated. 

Syona, 15, has cerebral palsy and involuntary movements, especially in her head and neck. A haircut, which for most people is a simple errand or time to relax, presents challenges. 

First, most salons are not set up for a power wheelchair. Instead, they have stairs, narrow doorways, chairs bolted to the floor, and little room to manoeuvre. 

We may not be able to get in, and if we do, it may take us longer to get settled.

Then there is the cutting. We need a stylist who understands that when I say Syona cannot always hold still, I do not mean she is being difficult. I mean her body will move, and they need to find a way to work with that movement.

One time a stylist repeatedly barked at Syona to "sit still," while Syona apologized again and again, even though I had explained twice that the movement was not in her control. We left that place and never went back. 

We did find a lovely kids' salon that treated her gently and made the experience fun. But as she got older, she wanted something more mature. I lack the skills to cut her hair at home, and she really wanted a salon experience that left her feeling good.

So we searched. And landed at two places that changed everything. 

First, I started to see a stylist for myself who was kind, patient and did not rush his appointments. We developed a strong relationship, and I told him about Syona and our challenges. "Bring her here and we will figure it out,” he said, which was music to my ears.

Shampooing her hair would be tough, he said, so he would use a spray bottle. We talked through styles that would work with her headrest. And when she came in, he joked with her, treating her exactly like he treats me.

Later, Syona decided she wanted a salon that specializes in curly hair. We called one place that came recommended, but were told they had stairs.

I emailed a second place, explaining that I needed accessibility and a stylist who would be flexible with Syona’s movements. They welcomed us, telling us that the salon was on street level. There was no accessible button for the door, they said, but offered to help when we arrived.

We booked an appointment on the spot and have since become regulars. What they do sounds straightforward but is rare.

When Syona’s head moves in a direction the stylist was not expecting, they do not sigh loudly, or bark. They pause. They gently redirect where she is looking. They wait. They dance with her movements, and they keep going.

They cut Syona’s hair in a style that works with her wheelchair headrest, so the headrest does not flatten the hair’s shape, or mess it up every time she leans back.

They minimize the amount of cut hair that ends up on her chair. It sounds minor—until you must pick hair out of a joystick. And they taught us how to manage her curls at home. 

Syona leaves the salon feeling the way we all want to: happy, loving her hair, and not feeling self-conscious about her body.

I usually take Syona, but my husband Dilip took her most recently. Dilip has kept his head shaved since we met, and everything he knows about hair he has learned from being a dad to our girls. Thankfully, their visit was a success. After booking her next appointment herself, Syona left the salon with Dilip, sporting a great cut and a huge smile on her face.

I know this is a piece about my kid’s haircut, but hair is tied to identity. I have leaned on mine to help me feel good when things outside my control are spiralling. When I see someone’s hair growing back after medical treatment, I think about their journey. 

When I see people proudly wearing close-cropped cuts, shaved heads, or long locks, I think about the meaning hair can carry. Finding someone who understands how to work with yours can bring great joy.

Getting Syona’s hair cut used to weigh on me for days beforehand. I would think through the logistics. I would brace for something to go wrong. Now, when I book an appointment, I feel almost relieved. Syona still gets anxious beforehand, and I understand why: her body has taught her that new spaces can be unpredictable. But once she is in a place with people who know her, she calms down. In the weeks since her recent visit, she has often declared, “I love my haircut.”

Not everything about parenting a kid with a disability gets easier over time. Some things get harder as she grows. But this one small piece of a regular life has become one of the good parts. A haircut. Just a haircut. And the people who make it that way.

Like this content? Sign up for our monthly BLOOM e-letter or take our short BLOOM survey.