Mark's school hosts a benefit each year to help St. Baldrick's cure childhood cancer. Students raise money and shave their heads in unity with kids who lose their hair from chemotherapy.
We have a standing agreement: If Mark participates, he skips all haircuts between January and St. Baldrick's in March. He hates haircuts, so this is a big incentive for him. I hate that he looks like a floppy-haired Beatle for three months, especially in his birthday pictures, but I want him to participate, so I suck it up. However, it does kill me inside a little bit each time he flips his increasingly thick mop-top to the side, a la Justin Bieber.
Well, this year presented a new challenge. Mark's also participating in a fashion show, to raise money for diabetes research. He needed head shots which go in the program, and are displayed on a giant screen during the event dinner. I found myself in a parenting dilemma--how to keep my anti-haircut pledge to Mark and still make my shaggy-headed boy presentable for the fashion show photos? I worked through a thousand scenarios in my head, but none ended in a good compromise.
I finally lost it the day before the photo shoot. Mark had developed a blinking tic, due to his hair continuously falling into his eyes, and it triggered me. I took a deep breath, grabbed a pair of scissors, and ordered Mark into the kitchen.
He screamed when he saw the scissors.
"I'm not gonna stab you!" I said, but he burst into tears anyway.
"Don't cut my hair!" he screamed. I realized he'd actually prefer me stabbing him.
"I'm just trimming your bangs," I said, gruffly. "So I can see your eyes in the photos."
Mark hung his head, and let the tears flow freely. He refused to lift up his head so I could cut in a straight line. I cut as fast as I could, to quickly end our misery.
"There," I said, smoothing his hair. "Looks good. Still long, but out of your eyes."
We have a standing agreement: If Mark participates, he skips all haircuts between January and St. Baldrick's in March. He hates haircuts, so this is a big incentive for him. I hate that he looks like a floppy-haired Beatle for three months, especially in his birthday pictures, but I want him to participate, so I suck it up. However, it does kill me inside a little bit each time he flips his increasingly thick mop-top to the side, a la Justin Bieber.
Well, this year presented a new challenge. Mark's also participating in a fashion show, to raise money for diabetes research. He needed head shots which go in the program, and are displayed on a giant screen during the event dinner. I found myself in a parenting dilemma--how to keep my anti-haircut pledge to Mark and still make my shaggy-headed boy presentable for the fashion show photos? I worked through a thousand scenarios in my head, but none ended in a good compromise.
I finally lost it the day before the photo shoot. Mark had developed a blinking tic, due to his hair continuously falling into his eyes, and it triggered me. I took a deep breath, grabbed a pair of scissors, and ordered Mark into the kitchen.
He screamed when he saw the scissors.
"I'm not gonna stab you!" I said, but he burst into tears anyway.
"Don't cut my hair!" he screamed. I realized he'd actually prefer me stabbing him.
"I'm just trimming your bangs," I said, gruffly. "So I can see your eyes in the photos."
Mark hung his head, and let the tears flow freely. He refused to lift up his head so I could cut in a straight line. I cut as fast as I could, to quickly end our misery.
"There," I said, smoothing his hair. "Looks good. Still long, but out of your eyes."
Mark snorted, then ran off to the bathroom. He slammed the door, and stayed there for half an hour.
He was still pouting when we arrived at the photo shoot the next night. As Mark ran off, I silently congratulated myself on my restraint, and on not hacking Mark's hair to pieces.
Until...Mark ran his hand through his hair.
I watched in horror as he pushed his mop-top to the side, revealing a huuuuge gap in his hairline. He went from having a floppy bowl cut to looking like someone carved out a half-rectangle in his hair. It was beyond bad--it was horrific.
The photographer saw it at the exact same moment I did. Before I could yell a slow-motion "Stop!" at Mark, she turned to me, confused. I saw a micro-expression of fear flash across her face. It was like she saw a werewolf coming straight for her.
She turned back to Mark, struggling for words. She finally settled on, "Oooh, um...why don't you go fix your hair in the mirror, Mark?"
"It's fine," Mark assured her. He smiled, completely unaware, ready for the next shot.
The photographer looked at me again, and I turned five shades of red. I motioned wildly at Mark to come over.
"It's FINE, Mom!" he hissed, holding his ground. I grabbed him and propped him in front of the mirror, where he immediately realized how not fine it really was.
He also turned bright red. I thought he might cry, but he pulled himself together quickly. "You ruined my hair!" he cried, but I was already smoothing it down and assuring him it was okay. He was not convinced.
Somehow, we made it work. (I say that without having seen a single shot yet.) Even through his seething anger, Mark put on a good face, and the photographer seemed happy. Mark, however, was not.
And now, a week later, Mark's hair looks just fine. Well, fine enough, I guess, as long as he doesn't push it off to the side. He still hasn't forgiven me, not even when I offered to take him in to the barber to fix it.
I'm actually grateful he refused the barber...because now I don't have to lie and say Mark gave himself that bad haircut. Instead, I just have to bide my time until I hear the St. Baldrick's hair clippers fire up, and remove the last shred of evidence.
Only then will I (and Mark) breathe easy...
No comments:
Post a Comment