I needed to get Critter’s hair trimmed today. He’d been trying to grow the top of his hair fashionably long and shaggy, and I’m not cool with that. I cannot STAND the constant flick of the head to get hair out of eyes. I cannot STAND a child hiding their eyes (and therefore their true emotions) behind their hair. I don’t care if Davey Jones died and a sudden comeback to his hair style is imminent. I don’t care if long hair on boys is the rage on the Disney Channel.
It’s NOT the rage in Dickerson, Maryland.
Understand that Critter is rather persistent…dogged…determined. (read: Stubborn as Hell) His will is a force to be reckoned with. I knew I was in for a fight. Or at the very least, an unpleasant battle of the minds.
I called Donna and set up an appointment with Amy in Poolesville at Images Hair Salon, and warned them that I would be bringing in Rocky Balboa.
They were not afraid, or impressed. I tried to communicate the dangerous force with which we would be dealing. I got nothing but patiently, humoredly, pooh-poohed.
I dreaded their upcoming disillusionment.
The school bus arrived, Critter and Varmint got off, and my stomach knotted. We only had time for afterschool snacks and then headed out the door to Poolesville.
I was comforted in the knowledge that My Captain was with us. I knew he was quite capable of picking up the pieces if we had a “BLEVE” (Boiling Liquid Expanding Vapor Explosion.) A BLEVE is a term used by Fire and Rescue folks when you’ve got something like a pressurized gas tank, like a propane truck, on fire. It’s bad. Really Bad. REALLY REALLY Bad.
It’s what we call an immediate threat to life and limb. It usually only leaves pieces and scorched earth.
That would be Critter in full-blown tantrum mode.
We arrived at Images Hair Design in Poolesville, and were greeted by a very cool, calm, and collected Amy at the desk. She flashed Critter a big bright smile….
…and then something unexpected happened.
He was putty in her hands.
Before I knew it, she was chopping and trimming and cajoling and flirting and he was having a BALL. His hair was exactly as I wanted it, and he had not made even one PEEP about it. It was short, clean-cut, off of his face, allowing his beautiful eyes to shine through. He looked so handsome in the mirror as he laughed at her banter.
Two things hit me hard in the gut:
1) Other women have better communication skills with my son than I do.
2) My son is awfully easily swayed by a pretty face and charm.
Neither one of these epiphanies makes me very happy.
He’s in his 9th year.
I’ll never make it to his 18th.