Miracles DO Happen!
(Ed. Note: This post was written for last week, but as you can see by the previous post, I've been a bit preoccupied)
My friends, I am doing a happy dance unlike any I have done in recent years. If you could see me, you'd think we won the lottery or something. This past weekend a miracle occurred. MY SON CUT HIS HAIR!! Woo Hoo! You see, I learned long ago to pick my battles. When the hair thing started with #1 Son I kept my mouth shut. I knew that if I complained, it would only get worse. Besides, hair is not permanent like tattoos or nose rings, right?
Back when he was a baby he had the cutest curly blond hair I had ever seen. My father decided he was starting to look like a girl, so he talked me into taking him for his first hair cut. I was broken-hearted and we haven't seen curls since. As he grew, he never really cared much about his hair, so I always kept it neatly cut short.
That all changed when he hit the "tween" years. First there was the complete shave. He looked like a Marine fresh out of boot camp. There were contours and lumps on his head that I had never noticed before. It was interesting, but at least it was neat. The shave was followed by the spikes. Still short on the sides, the spikes on top were almost shellacked. If the kid tripped and fell into you, you could be impaled. I realized the extent of it when my hair gel started to mysteriously disappear. I finally solved that problem by buying him something called "Hair Cement." That stuff was lethal and a bit expensive, but it achieved the proper "spikage."
I have to admit, I liked the spikes. He went through a phase where he wanted blond tips. You see by this time, his hair had turned a dirty blond color. I had no problem with dyed tips, but I was NOT going to pay $60+ to get it done. No child's hair processing should cost more than mine. I was afraid to do it myself, as I would probably make him look like a skunk, thus causing him undue therapy bills in the future. My MIL offered to do it (she's pretty fearless), but by the time I bought the kit, #1 Son had moved on to a new hairstyle.
Let us call the most recent style "The Greasy Rats Nest." You see, he hit that magic age (13) and decided not only to let it grow, but to only wash it every few days. I blame that Ashton Kutcher moron. I finally badgered him into at least washing it daily (where did all the grease come from? Damned hormones). As far as the mop on his head, well I kept repeating, "Don't sweat the small stuff" over and over to myself. "Don't sweat it" - when the bangs covered the eyes; "Don't sweat it" - when the sides cascaded to his chin; "Don't sweat it" - when the back passed his collar. *sigh* When the hair got so long that I could grab the kid by his feet and mop the floor with him, I started to get annoyed. Still, I was in the habit of gritting my teeth. His father, my ex, on the other hand took to making comments - almost constantly. This would work to my advantage.
This past weekend, #1 went to visit his Dad. He brought my son back to us at The Little One's soccer tournament on Sunday. I almost didn't recognize my own oldest child when he walked into the gym. Who WAS this handsome child? He looked human! His hair is short now and looks nice either spiked (with yet another new brand of hair gel *sigh*) or not. The best part – it wasn't ME who nagged him this time. His Dad is the "bad guy." Every once in a while life hands you a small victory. You need to grab onto it with all your might.
I'm reinforcing this wonderful new look with LOTS of compliments. He's only slightly embarrassed. I keep telling him how wonderful it is to actually see his face again. But then, there's the cloud around the silver lining – I can actually see the teenage scowl now instead of just feeling it. Take the good with the bad, my friends.
My friends, I am doing a happy dance unlike any I have done in recent years. If you could see me, you'd think we won the lottery or something. This past weekend a miracle occurred. MY SON CUT HIS HAIR!! Woo Hoo! You see, I learned long ago to pick my battles. When the hair thing started with #1 Son I kept my mouth shut. I knew that if I complained, it would only get worse. Besides, hair is not permanent like tattoos or nose rings, right?
Back when he was a baby he had the cutest curly blond hair I had ever seen. My father decided he was starting to look like a girl, so he talked me into taking him for his first hair cut. I was broken-hearted and we haven't seen curls since. As he grew, he never really cared much about his hair, so I always kept it neatly cut short.
That all changed when he hit the "tween" years. First there was the complete shave. He looked like a Marine fresh out of boot camp. There were contours and lumps on his head that I had never noticed before. It was interesting, but at least it was neat. The shave was followed by the spikes. Still short on the sides, the spikes on top were almost shellacked. If the kid tripped and fell into you, you could be impaled. I realized the extent of it when my hair gel started to mysteriously disappear. I finally solved that problem by buying him something called "Hair Cement." That stuff was lethal and a bit expensive, but it achieved the proper "spikage."
I have to admit, I liked the spikes. He went through a phase where he wanted blond tips. You see by this time, his hair had turned a dirty blond color. I had no problem with dyed tips, but I was NOT going to pay $60+ to get it done. No child's hair processing should cost more than mine. I was afraid to do it myself, as I would probably make him look like a skunk, thus causing him undue therapy bills in the future. My MIL offered to do it (she's pretty fearless), but by the time I bought the kit, #1 Son had moved on to a new hairstyle.
Let us call the most recent style "The Greasy Rats Nest." You see, he hit that magic age (13) and decided not only to let it grow, but to only wash it every few days. I blame that Ashton Kutcher moron. I finally badgered him into at least washing it daily (where did all the grease come from? Damned hormones). As far as the mop on his head, well I kept repeating, "Don't sweat the small stuff" over and over to myself. "Don't sweat it" - when the bangs covered the eyes; "Don't sweat it" - when the sides cascaded to his chin; "Don't sweat it" - when the back passed his collar. *sigh* When the hair got so long that I could grab the kid by his feet and mop the floor with him, I started to get annoyed. Still, I was in the habit of gritting my teeth. His father, my ex, on the other hand took to making comments - almost constantly. This would work to my advantage.
This past weekend, #1 went to visit his Dad. He brought my son back to us at The Little One's soccer tournament on Sunday. I almost didn't recognize my own oldest child when he walked into the gym. Who WAS this handsome child? He looked human! His hair is short now and looks nice either spiked (with yet another new brand of hair gel *sigh*) or not. The best part – it wasn't ME who nagged him this time. His Dad is the "bad guy." Every once in a while life hands you a small victory. You need to grab onto it with all your might.
I'm reinforcing this wonderful new look with LOTS of compliments. He's only slightly embarrassed. I keep telling him how wonderful it is to actually see his face again. But then, there's the cloud around the silver lining – I can actually see the teenage scowl now instead of just feeling it. Take the good with the bad, my friends.
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