Me: Hey you, maybe it’s time for a hair cut. What do you think?
Boy Wonder: You meant to say “Trim”, right?
Me: Right. Trim. Got that.
It’s good to see this kid looking like himself again. So much so, that when I glanced over at him at church this Sunday, I noticed he still had a milk mustache and a bit of something gummy on the side of his face. But I also noticed that for the first time in months, I see the boy I expect to see.
And it’s possible, dear reader, that you will be seeing less of this face in the future. I am certainly seeing less of him. He’s striking out and in hard negotiations to have his “territory” expanded. (I swear, when this child was small and asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” He would answer, with the straightest face, “Emperor of the World.”) It’s only a matter of time before he expands his territory right out of our home. He’s never been the kind of child to look back, in any regard; and I don’t think they let you go to college with your kid. Right?
But not now. Not just yet. For the moment, here he is smiling at me. Looking ever so much like himself.
A few weeks ago, Jena over at Modish put out a call for what she’s calling Handmade Faces. I didn’t expect her to use what I wrote, in fact, I told her she really didn’t have to—it was just a little mama pride going on. But, being who she is—she has! And consequently, Boy Wonder is featured over on Modish today.
You really do owe it to yourself to check out all the amazing handmade there is to be found on Modish. There is so much to see beyond my kiddo! Jena has quite the knack for spotting the best and brightest in the handmade world, not to mention having a kind heart. She’s a very bright spot in the blogosphere! While you’re there, don’t forget to show Boy Wonder some love.
And Jena, you’ve made an 11 year old’s day. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.
The list of lies I’ve told my child in the last few days would surely get me in trouble with Santa. But, it was for a good cause… and I have to say, worth the expression on his face when he walked through the door. My photos of the event are all wonky, much like the candles on the cake—someone played with my camera settings and I didn’t catch it until too late! Somehow, I don’t think we’ll need photos to remember this birthday.
Beyond all the turmoil in my life this week (and boy did that NOT help!) it’s been really difficult to watch Boy Wonder mourn. We told him that we would do things as a family on his birthday, but that parties with friends and gifts just couldn’t happen this year. He understood, but it didn’t make it any easier. Listening to him on the phone with his uncle, (thank you for calling, Mark!!) this morning would have broken my heart, except I was laughing so hard. Is it evil to torture your child so? He simply had no clue what was in store for him.
To his credit, he tried really hard not to mope. He didn’t succeed. This morning I found him curled up in front of his Birthday Tree in a quasi-fetal position. “Why so glum, chum?”
“Oh, no reason,” he said with tears in his eyes. And I felt like the worst mother on the planet. And so he sighed the afternoon away.
I won’t forget the look on his face—simple glee. He spent the entire time thanking everyone over and over. I’ve lost count how many times he’s told me, “I just need to say thank you!” He’s over the moon… a bit teary-eyed for all the right reasons. When his grandparents called to sing Happy Birthday to him they asked if the party was worth all the suffering.
“It was worth it, five times over!”
He never saw it coming. And sometimes, that’s a good thing!
This photo is a bit blurry—but I adore his expression, so this is what I’m posting. His smile has been fleeting this afternoon, so I’m hanging on to what I’ve got, blurry or not.
Boy Wonder has had the most unfortunate of accidents: he sat down in the chair of a scissor happy stylist. His long hair is no longer and he’s none-too-pleased. It took about an hour after the cut for it to sink in: he no longer looks like himself. He didn’t ask for a short cut, and he had no expectations that his hair would look much different than before. He certainly didn’t expect to see a different boy in the mirror and he’s having a hard time absorbing the sense of violation.
It took me six seconds to recognize there was problem when he walked in the door. I looked at my child and back at my husband and then I hit the roof! I FOOLISHLY let IZ take him to get his hair cut. Boy Wonder is not the most concrete about expressing what he wants when it comes to his hair. His father was no better. Apparently, they told the stylist, “choppy, rocky, not girlie” when what they should have said was, “this cut, only about a half inch shorter.”
There were words. Many words. I can’t look at my kid without my heart breaking. He really loved his long hair and it was such a part of him. It wouldn’t be so bad if this is what he wanted. But, it isn’t. He’s crushed and I’m torn between being crushed with him and wanting to crush his father. Clearly, we have established that from now on, the boy’s haircuts will be handled solely by the boy’s mother. And the boy’s mother reserves the right to glare in all directions for a few days. Lucky IZ, he leaves on business tonight.
And it might seem silly, to be upset about a haircut. I’m sure somebody will want to point out how unimportant it is in the long run. Please don’t. Because while you and I know that hair grows back, and it does not “make the pre-teen”, this is a real loss for my child. And if you could have seen him falling apart, you’d wouldn’t judge him for his distress. I’ve always been a sympathetic crier: but my own kid lamenting just wrenches my heart out.
The thing is, I get it! We sat and lamented together. I told him about how once someone did the same thing to my hair, only my hair had been down to the middle of my back. How, I had to walk home after, right past the school. And the woman had used a funky curling iron on it making it all fluffy—so I ended up walking to the school to dunk my head under the water faucet before heading home. It was THAT bad.
“Do you have a picture of your hair?” he asked.
“Yes! I had my school photo taken that year with that hideous cut. And then your grand-dad had to go hang it in his office, where the whole town could see it!” I told him.
“Was it worse than my hair?”
“Way worse. I was mortified. And humiliated.” I answered.
“Could I see this photo?” the twinkle in his voice gave him away. We laughed a little about our misery.
When the reality set in, he was furious and then distraught and then in need of a new hat. An emergency trip to Fred Meyer remedied the hat situation. His hair is going to take a bit longer. The new “do” is so dang girlie and so short, it will be months before he needs another cut—months before we get another picture without a hat. I’ve already warned him that he can’t wear a hat at church, but otherwise, I’m ignoring that “no hats indoors” rule for a few days. He needs time to adjust to the person he sees. And frankly so do I.
 
