Last week Jon had a guy spa day, sort of. After nearly a month of not wanting to go anywhere, he was treated to a haircut, shave and manicure and came back home looking polished and handsome.

I’ve been taking him to the same barbershop for a while. All the employees there know him and are wonderfully patient with his moods, quirks and slow pace.

The receptionist knows I don’t mind waiting and fits him in around appointments if necessary since it can take up to an hour to get him inside the shop and settled in a chair.

I have to admit to having days when I’m tired of explaining Jon to people so it’s comforting to go back to a place where he’s already understood. Everyone just does their thing until Jon’s ready and no one freaks out because he’s messing up the schedule.

There was a new receptionist behind the counter this visit which caused me to sigh internally as I came through the door. I knew I’d have explaining to do…again.

Jon was still out by the car fooling with the door handle, so she looked at me oddly. This was a barbershop after all.

Me: “Hi. My son, Jon, needs a haircut today.”

Her: “OK,” looking around, “so where is he?”

Me: “He’s out there.” I point to the parking lot.

Her: “Is he coming in?”

Me: “Eventually. He moves pretty slow. He has Down syndrome and autism.”

Her: “Is he OK out there by himself? Should I go get him?”

Me: (Internal sighing and so wanting to do some eye rolling) “He’s fine. I’m watching him from here.”

Her: “How old is he.”

Me: “33”

Her: “Wow. You’ve been doing this a long time then?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Her: “Well, OK let me check. Both barbers have appointments so we won’t be able to fit him in until 12:30.”

Me: “That’s alright. He won’t be ready to sit down until then anyway…maybe.”

Her: “Really? That’s over an hour from now.” She continued staring at the computer screen, fussing over appointments and schedules and how to fit Jon in.

She didn’t get it. As one of my good friends likes to say, she hadn’t been ‘Jon-a-tized’ yet.

Being Jon-a-tized is defined as the state of being educated and familiar with the way Jon does life until you accept him for who he is and how his existence in your life (even for limited time periods) affects you.

Everyone who comes into contact with Jon at any level of interaction is being Jon-a-tized.

He shuffled through the door about fifteen minutes later and headed straight for the bathroom. He was in there for nearly thirty minutes.

I was sitting on a stool underneath a huge flat screen TV, attempting to ignore some sports anchor rambling on endlessly about a football player and reading a book on my Kindle app, when the receptionist walked by with a broom.

“He’s been in there a long time, is he OK?”

I smiled at her. “He’s fine.”

“I guess I see what you mean…about him.” She started sweeping hair into a small pile.

Jon did get a hair cut and shave. We had lunch in the Japanese Steakhouse next door and then went two doors down from there and had his nails clipped and cleaned.

In seven hours we managed to get a receptionist, a restaurant server and a nail technician with very broken English somewhat Jon-a-tized.

All in all, it was a pretty good day.