So we pulled up at the nearest pharmacy (the locale of said Rx not being any more pertinent to the story tonight than being next to a hair salon that we have visited a few times in the past.)

At this juncture, my one-dimpled and fair-haired-wonder-child suggested that we �Get our hairs cut, dad. And, do you think we could NOT have me sit on your lap this time? �Cuz I think even with the tickles from the part where it is raining hair? I think, that I can sit still for them and we�d have more time for me ta soak in the tub, n� fer you to read to me if we got ALL OUR hairs done at the same time. Make sense, dad? Does it?�

It worked out just fine. The cute little gamine of a greeter/ma�tre d'trim/receptionist-type person is of Hispanic extraction. And she is smitten with a big phat smite for DaKid. She smooched him, ruffled his head, picked his butt up and put him physically in the chair� and on.

The whole time tonight, she was calling him �baby� in that sultry SoVerySoCal Hispanic-charm-way. While we were getting our ears lowered by a pair of nice folks she quizzed us incessantly about where we were from, why I answered his questions so carefully and seriously, where his MOM was? (Interested in that kid much? Yeah. I hear you. Whatever.) And more.

[Side Note. My cute and funny/prancy-nancy guy (named Victor) stylist�asked me with a hilarious twist in his voice �If it would be OK for me to play a bit with your hair this time? And, um, do you think you�d feel SILLY wearing a leopard print hair-cutting cape? Because I DO think it would be VERY becoming with your nice new red hair?� I laughed and told him to have fun, but to note that I doubted sincerely that I�d be wearing spots again soon. For those curious about the red-hair, click older and search for something labeled Hair Today. Side Note Ends.]

Back to that son-O�-mine? He�s a very polite little lad. And he waited patiently for us to exit the establishment before saying, �DAD! Why did she keep calling me baby? I am a kid or a little man�even just a BOY. Not a baby. That wasn�t very nice, was it?� He was covered with a wondrously quizzical look�and I could tell that he was confused by her sweet and overtly effusive efforts seeming REALLY kind, versus, that damned �Baby� word.

Now to get any further in the story, we�ll need to sidetrack a bit.

For first time readers, I have to explain carefully that I am most zealously scrooge like with my child�s film, Boob-Toob, and game input.

But problematically, his nana (my mom) even while living on the other coast does periodically get time with him (sorta kidding about that being a problem. Her love probably makes up for her other foibles) Anyway. This would be how at AGE THREE, my kid got to watch Who Framed Roger Rabbit. [This isn�t to say that it is a bad film, it is actually a fave-DaSauce. That said, I probably would have at least glanced at the rating (parental guidance due to THE PHUCKING DIP BEING SCARY-ASS-SHIT, and some language stuff) before watching it with him.

From my perspective, the barn had burned down, so there was no reason to pretend the cows had to go stand where it used to be� As he never had vicious nightmares from the GODDAMNED-DIP, he has since seen it a few times.

Thus, when he asked about the use of the word �Baby� from our curvaceous-cutette of a front desk person�I dredged a moment from the memory banks that would be a fitting analogy for a boy of his youth. I noted that it was like Jessica Rabbit trying to sound sweet and using that word for Roger�who clearly was quite grown up for a cartoon rabbit, wasn�t he?

�Ah-ha.� Says my son.

�Then it would have made sense for me to call her honey-bunny back?�

I guffawed.

He said, �You are laughing with JOY again. Right, dad?!?�

I noted that I was indeed laughing with joy at his grasp of the situation�and that additionally it would have been really funny if he had done just that. By now we were in the pharmacy collecting the cold meds mentioned ten years ago and above.

�Let�s go back, and I�ll call her honey-bunny now then, dad.� Says my kid.

I had to explain that there are some things that fit as part of the timing�and how it might be out of context now.

�Oh.� Says my son.

�But what can I tell her if I stick my head in on our way back to the car?�

I laughed and said, �I tell you what. Go ahead and practice a really low and gravely voice� Pretend you are Baby Herman. You know? The baby with the cigar?� He nodded.

�OK. So try saying �Hiya TOOTS!� in his voice between here and there.�

He digs deep and gets a pretty good rendition of those two words being channeled by Betty Boop AND Baby Herman.

The various gals in the Rx are giggling by now. He continues with about 15 attempts at �Hiya Toots!� between there and the exit.

So. My five-year-old Don Juan and I (as his duenna,) get up to the door of the salon, and I open the door. He sticks his head in and yells a sorta-kindergartener-Tom Waits-flavor of the two words.

Her �Oh-ho!� combined with laughter and finger-wagging responses were right on cue.

We headed home.

--DatLongStoryLongerSauceGuy