Bad Hair Day

I’m walking through the mall with Lucas’s hand in mind as he cries quietly.

“I just want a treat. I don’t want to get my hair cut.”

“That’s not how it works, honey. You have to go get your hair cut and then you get a treat.”

I wish I hadn’t initiated this bribe. I wish I hadn’t dragged him into the kids hairdresser and tried to convince him of the merits of the Lightning McQueen barber chair. I wish I hadn’t walked him into the Sheffield & Sons and shown him all the candy options he could choose from if he went and sat in the Lightning McQueen barber chair. I wish I didn’t have to follow through now and drag a depressed child through the mall without having achieved the hair cut goal.

I wish getting his hair cut didn’t matter to me. But I suppose it does.

When I dropped my son off at daycare this morning, I realized I’d forgotten to brush his hair. The teachers laughed and told me how they pat his hair down after nap because it’s all sticking up. I figured they were subtly telling me he needs a haircut. My mom called to tell me that her hairdresser – who Lucas will usually go to - is still not back from vacation. I’m pretty sure she was telling me to find somewhere to get him a haircut. My mother-in-law stroked his forehead, saying, “his hair is turning brown as it gets long.” I may be reading into this, but I think she was also telling me, in her kind-hearted way, that he needs a haircut.

The thing is – I just wish this didn’t matter. When Lucas was born, my husband didn’t cut his hair and it grew and grew into curls that he secretly loved and everyone quietly disapproved of. And when you look at pictures of him back then you see this crazed look in his eyes as he is delirious with happiness holding his infant son. I didn’t notice that his hair was growing longer than ever because we were in the midst of creating our little family unit. And that was way more fascinating to me than the length of his bloody hair.

But then everyone around us starting hinting. Finally, someone joked that Lucas wouldn’t know which one was his mommy and which was his daddy. And so my husband quietly went and got himself sheared with a #3 razor on the top and a #2 on the sides and back, and said adieu to his curly locks as they fell to the floor.  

I know it’s just hair, but when you’re forced to do anything to please others, it’s not really about hair at all. I could have just dragged him in there, strapped him into the Lightning McQueen barber chair and got it done. He would’ve been upset, but then I would’ve gotten him his treat, and then it would be over. But I chose to give him the choice. And now, we all have to live with it – no hair cut, no treats, lots of dramatic tears.

Because the thing is, I was dragged to the hair dresser as a kid so I could look just right. And I was put in private school so I could learn to act right. And I was registered in tennis lessons so I could meet the right kind of boys. And none of it ever made me feel right. And when I look back at pictures of myself at ten, dressed in polo shirts and white slacks and penny loafers, all I see is the kid who forgot to brush her hair.

Remembering that, I decide to take Lucas out of the mall, hoping a change in scenery will help us move on from this episode. He doesn’t want to leave though. He’s still sobbing, torn by the choice I’ve given him.

I pull him into my arms, as I did when he was a baby. He struggles a bit, but settles when I tell him “It’s okay. I know you’re scared. You don’t have to do this now.”

His tears turn into heaving breaths as he realizes I understand why he won’t go. “But will I still get a treat?” he asks, eyes wide with hope.

“No, honey. But we’ll come back another day when you’re ready.”

He tucks his head onto my shoulder and I wipe his tears from his face with my thumb. He’s still dejected about the absence of treats and I’m still annoyed that he won’t have his hair cut before the wedding tomorrow and Father’s day. But something has shifted here. And the hair cut doesn’t matter any more.

I tell him again, “everything’s okay. One day, when you don’t feel as scared, we’ll try again.”

I was raised to believe appearance matters but I had a hard time buying into that notion because it never felt right. So perhaps in my rebellion, I’ve let my son’s hair grow too lengthy and I’ve let him have his choice.

At the end of the day, I don’t want him to think that his appearance is related to how I feel about him, or how he should feel about himself. I don’t want him to think my love is measured in any relation to any of that.

It matters to me that he’s clean and fed and hydrated and relatively happy. But does it really matter if his hair if he shows up in wedding pictures with a big fluff ball on the back of his head?

I pull him close to me. “Mommy loves you just the way you are,” I tell him.

“Mama,” he responds and jumps off my lap. He is ready to move on now and maybe I am too.