For weeks, perhaps months, I’ve been saying to my 9-year old, “You need a haircut!” He half-heartedly agrees, but his overgrown mop is fine if you ask him. The boys around here sport a variety of styles, but long, 1970s messy styles are fashionable, not that we pay much attention to fashion in our family. This week, I said, “Would you mind if we had your hair cut?” and he agreed to have it cut.
I mentioned to my husband that our son needed a haircut. It’s not so much the length I minded. Rather, it was the
Dutch-girl look that drove me crazy. So, today, after Avalanche Ranch, my husband took him to the barber. We discussed what to ask for (“A not too-short boy’s haircut”).
So, my son came home afterward and his face told the story. I said, “Hey, come here. Don’t you like it?” and he burst into tears. I tried to feel his pain. Really, I did. I patted him on the back, hugged his resistant body and told him, “It’ll grow. Hair grows. By the time school starts, it’ll be long.”
Secretly, though, I wanted to do a backflip in celebration because it looks fantastic . . . short in the back, long on the top, cut over his ears.
He is miserable, but I am thrilled. (Don’t tell him.)
(I try not to concern myself with hair and clothing choices, too much, but when I occasionally get my way on matters of personal taste, I can’t help but feel victorious. And happy! And the tiniest bit guilty.)