newhat.jpg

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.