Llambert Gets a Haircut

"What kind of hairstyle do you want?" my husband asks.

He is holding the hand shears -- think Edward Scissorhands -- and walking toward the barn. The vet had sedated the llama for hoof trimming and shots, and now my husband was going to begin shearing off the llama's winter coat before he awakes from his drug-induced sleep.

I am the practical sort. The llama needs a haircut. He will awaken in 30 minutes. It is dinner time, and I am hungry.

"Kindergarten chic," I say.

Ten minutes later, after settling up the bill with the vet, I walk into the stall where my husband is clipping the llama. Brown hair covers the stall floor.

I offer to clip. We use hand shears -- which are sharp and effective. There's just a lot of llama hair. Clipping involves grabbing a clump of hair and cutting. I try to leave about an inch of hair. This, I figure, gives him protection from flies.

Once finished with one side, my husband grabs the llama's leg and I support the head while we flip the sleeping 360-pound llama to his other side.

I sigh as I see the mass of brown.

We continue clipping.

Once finished, my husband takes the shears and tidies up the haircut. He trims the stray hairs and tries to even it out. He likes the llama and wants him to be the handsome centurion.

Sometime during dinner the llama awakes and stands. When we return to the barn, we find a still groggy llama.

"It's a tough life," I tell him. "You awake and find your hair missing."

When I return him to the sheep pasture, the sheep give him a look, but know better to laugh at his new haircut.