Monday, October 24, 2005
No worries...
One of my friends from my days at the bank is a woman whose life has been unconventional and adventurous and whose wisdom I have always admired. Of the many things I enjoy about Maureen, her stories about parenting Nick resonated with me long before I joined the motherhood sorority. Nick is now in his 30's, a handsome, accomplished scientist with a passion for tutoring underprivileged kids at an acclaimed charter school. When Nick was in high school, like millions of other teenagers, he expressed himself in part through his tresses, which had been, at various times, green, purple and fashioned into a mohawk. When I asked Maureen how she had abided some of Nick's more outrageous hairstyles, she replied pragmatically, "If your kid is polite, does well in school, avoids drugs, and hangs out with friends you like, you don't worry about hair."
I filed away her response in a mental folder labelled Adolescent Years of Unborn Children. Fast forward a decade. For over a year, Max has stubbornly resisted my attempts to tame his hair into something akin to order. I've become accustomed to the odd strand or the belligerent curl, even as I wish for better grooming.
This morning when Max awoke, the cowlick on the back of his head seemed to have burst into spectacular plumage. (Had you been browsing through his well-loved Animal Encyclopedia, you might have noticed a passing resemblance to an African crown crane.) Buoyed with confidence from the parenting course I'm attending, I ventured a new tack:
"Max, do you want to brush your hair yourself, or do you want me to do it? It's standing straight up in back like a porcupine!"
Without so much as a glance in the mirror, Max rebuffed me. "No way, mom! It's my 'Show and Tell'!"
Perhaps you're wondering how this potential stand-off ended. I took the page from Maureen's playbook, swallowed hard, and permitted Max to go to school with quills. By the time I picked him up three hours later, gravity had reduced the height of his unruly sprig, but by no means had it worked magic. As Max's teacher opened my car door, I couldn't resist a defensive remark. "Did Max show everyone his hair for 'Show and Tell'?" Mrs. Richards shook her head and laughed. "He reminded me of a boy a few years back who had five cowlicks all over his head. Every day he came to school looking like a gerbil."
I filed away her response in a mental folder labelled Adolescent Years of Unborn Children. Fast forward a decade. For over a year, Max has stubbornly resisted my attempts to tame his hair into something akin to order. I've become accustomed to the odd strand or the belligerent curl, even as I wish for better grooming.
This morning when Max awoke, the cowlick on the back of his head seemed to have burst into spectacular plumage. (Had you been browsing through his well-loved Animal Encyclopedia, you might have noticed a passing resemblance to an African crown crane.) Buoyed with confidence from the parenting course I'm attending, I ventured a new tack:
"Max, do you want to brush your hair yourself, or do you want me to do it? It's standing straight up in back like a porcupine!"
Without so much as a glance in the mirror, Max rebuffed me. "No way, mom! It's my 'Show and Tell'!"
Perhaps you're wondering how this potential stand-off ended. I took the page from Maureen's playbook, swallowed hard, and permitted Max to go to school with quills. By the time I picked him up three hours later, gravity had reduced the height of his unruly sprig, but by no means had it worked magic. As Max's teacher opened my car door, I couldn't resist a defensive remark. "Did Max show everyone his hair for 'Show and Tell'?" Mrs. Richards shook her head and laughed. "He reminded me of a boy a few years back who had five cowlicks all over his head. Every day he came to school looking like a gerbil."
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