Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Locks of love
The energy in our house has been in steady crescendo this week as the boys have looked forward to tomorrow's flight to the west coast. By this evening, it resembled a Rolling Stones concert in volume and frenzy.
As I packed for three, straightened up the house, scheduled Max's birthday trip to Sea World, arranged delivery of a new dishwasher after a month of dishpan hands, and scheduled repairs and painting to avoid small fingerprints on kitchen cabinetry, the boys acted out by upending box after box of freshly-organized toys. I took down six-month's worth of art work in the playroom to make room for new Kindergarten masterpieces, only to find Max pulling out files to review of his archived art from years past. One step forward, two steps back.
Finally, in an attempt to douse their wildfire energy, I tossed both boys into the tub. Boo was first to emerge.
Over the summer, Boo has been undergoing a bittersweet transformation. Come to think of it, there's nothing sweet about it. It simply breaks my heart.
For more than a year, Boo has been blessed with a halo of golden curls. Think Rubens cherub. Beautiful, stop-strangers-on-the-street whisps. When the Gulf Coast air is at its hot and muggy worst, Boo's perfect ringlets are at their angelic best. A cosmic consolation prize.
But Boo's hair is getting darker and straigher. With a few more months and a shorter cut, Boo's locks might become utterly unremarkable.
I've been in a strange stage of denial, scrunching his hair vigorously after each bath and contemplating products like "curl activator." For my three year old.
This evening I decided that either I need to seek professional treatment, or I need to make peace with the strands on Boo's head. After his bath, I pulled a comb from the top drawer.
Boo doesn't do combs. Combs have always made Boo's hair look goofy--frizzy, wild, practically levitating from his head. But not this evening.
We stood in front of the mirror. I began to gently stroke his hair, some to the left, some to the right, forming a part where only curls had been. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!"
His protests were vigorous.
Then he crumpled to the floor.
"Hey, Boo Bear, time for pjs."
"No pjs!"
"Hey, buddy, what's the matter?"
Silence for a good long while. Then:
"I need my curly hair (pronounced 'hay-yer')."
Boo is nothing if not a Texan.
"You do?"
"Yeah (pronounced 'yeah-yuh')."
"Hmmm."
"Because I don't look like me."
He sounded wrecked.
"Oh, sweetheart, you'll always look like you. Your eyes, your nose, your smile, and your sweet heart. There will only be one you, and I'd know you anywhere."
"But Babee won't recognize me without my curly hair!"
Now he was wailing.
His beloved Babee, from whom we've always told him he acquired his curly hair. If he no longer wore her hair, the hair they've shared for as long as he can remember, would he still be her Boo?
I wanted to sob, too.
"Would you like me to put the curls back in your hair?"
"Yeah-yuh."
I scooped him into my lap and lovingly tossled his hair. It made for a somewhat messy composition, straightish on top, ending in fusilli curls. Like a teenager growing out a stale perm.
What's wrong with denial for just a while longer?
As I packed for three, straightened up the house, scheduled Max's birthday trip to Sea World, arranged delivery of a new dishwasher after a month of dishpan hands, and scheduled repairs and painting to avoid small fingerprints on kitchen cabinetry, the boys acted out by upending box after box of freshly-organized toys. I took down six-month's worth of art work in the playroom to make room for new Kindergarten masterpieces, only to find Max pulling out files to review of his archived art from years past. One step forward, two steps back.
Finally, in an attempt to douse their wildfire energy, I tossed both boys into the tub. Boo was first to emerge.
Over the summer, Boo has been undergoing a bittersweet transformation. Come to think of it, there's nothing sweet about it. It simply breaks my heart.
For more than a year, Boo has been blessed with a halo of golden curls. Think Rubens cherub. Beautiful, stop-strangers-on-the-street whisps. When the Gulf Coast air is at its hot and muggy worst, Boo's perfect ringlets are at their angelic best. A cosmic consolation prize.
But Boo's hair is getting darker and straigher. With a few more months and a shorter cut, Boo's locks might become utterly unremarkable.
I've been in a strange stage of denial, scrunching his hair vigorously after each bath and contemplating products like "curl activator." For my three year old.
This evening I decided that either I need to seek professional treatment, or I need to make peace with the strands on Boo's head. After his bath, I pulled a comb from the top drawer.
Boo doesn't do combs. Combs have always made Boo's hair look goofy--frizzy, wild, practically levitating from his head. But not this evening.
We stood in front of the mirror. I began to gently stroke his hair, some to the left, some to the right, forming a part where only curls had been. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!"
His protests were vigorous.
Then he crumpled to the floor.
"Hey, Boo Bear, time for pjs."
"No pjs!"
"Hey, buddy, what's the matter?"
Silence for a good long while. Then:
"I need my curly hair (pronounced 'hay-yer')."
Boo is nothing if not a Texan.
"You do?"
"Yeah (pronounced 'yeah-yuh')."
"Hmmm."
"Because I don't look like me."
He sounded wrecked.
"Oh, sweetheart, you'll always look like you. Your eyes, your nose, your smile, and your sweet heart. There will only be one you, and I'd know you anywhere."
"But Babee won't recognize me without my curly hair!"
Now he was wailing.
His beloved Babee, from whom we've always told him he acquired his curly hair. If he no longer wore her hair, the hair they've shared for as long as he can remember, would he still be her Boo?
I wanted to sob, too.
"Would you like me to put the curls back in your hair?"
"Yeah-yuh."
I scooped him into my lap and lovingly tossled his hair. It made for a somewhat messy composition, straightish on top, ending in fusilli curls. Like a teenager growing out a stale perm.
What's wrong with denial for just a while longer?
1 Comments:
Oh Boo, you are so much more than curly hair! And I would recognize you and love you even if you had no hair! (Pink and purple hair with funny things sticking out of your face and body might be going a little far, (Sorry, we HAVE been in Seattle for a week) but I am sure I would love you even then. Babee
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