The Haircut

In August, I noted that the shaggy-headed kid living in my house desperately needed a hair cut.

This weekend, I thought. School doesn't start for another week.

Well, that calm, rational thought turned to panic when I realized the next day was freshman orientation, which meant school pictures and ID cards. Shaggy needed a hair cut, stat!

"My hair is FINE," Shaggy Mark argued, flipping his long, messy locks out of his eyes.

"Let's go," I said. I was not going to argue; this was going to happen, whether Shaggy liked it or not.

"But I want Jill to cut it!" Shaggy whined. He likes Jill because she cuts exactly three hairs from his head and says, "See Mom, the guys like their hair long. That's the style!" 

Mark sees that as a compromise--I should be happy he got a hair cut, and he's happy he didn't really get a hair cut. I see it as wasting $25. 

"We can't," I said. I reminded him that Jill works till 5, and it was now 6. The situation called for a real barber shop, which is where we went.

I waited patiently until Mark was called up to the chair. He brushed his long, wild hair forward, covering his eyes, trying desperately (but unsuccessfully) to hide behind his bangs. 

"So what are we doing today?" the barber asked.

I looked at Mark. "Tell him," I said, but Mark sat silently, glaring at me. He wanted no part of this.

"Not too much off the top or back, just clean it up a bit," I said. "Make him look good."

"That I can do!" the barber said, enthusiastically. His enthusiasm should have clued me in, but it didn't.

I sat back, lost in my gossip magazine. I was so absorbed that I forgot to look up until 10 minutes later. Then I casually glanced up, and gasped, clasping a hand to my mouth. "Oooooooh, crap!" I thought. 

Mark sat in the chair, jaw clenched, completely shorn and shooting daggers at me. I could feel his anger from across the room, rolling off him in huge waves. Three pounds of hair lay on the ground below him, and boy, was he mad. 

I'd promised to clean up his hair, not cut it all off, but clearly, the barber didn't hear that!

The barber finished snipping, and handed Mark a mirror. Mark looked over his hair, gave the barber a fake smile and nodded his approval (also fake). But as the barber turned to put the mirror away, Mark glared at me and shook his head. Oh, crap, I thought again.

I smiled nervously as Mark left the chair, touching his super short hair. He wriggled away from me.

"Looks good!" I said lightly, then whispered at him under my breath, "Don't say anything until we leave."

"Looks good, dude!" said the clueless barber. "Just put a little gel in it."

"I don't have any gel," Mark said, flatly, still touching his head in disbelief.

"Do you sell any?" I asked, quickly, trying to save the moment.

The barber handed me a small jar of pomade, and told Mark to just use a tiny bit. "And wash it off before bed, or it'll ruin your pillow case," he warned.

"How much do I owe you?" I asked. I was anxious to get out before Grumpy Mark lost it.

"Twelve bucks for the hair, and ten bucks for the pomade," he said. 

This time I did the double-take--ten dollars for that tiny container of product?!? But one look at angry Mark and I realized now was not the time to argue. 

I thanked him and we quickly left. 

The barber shop door was open toward the parking lot. "Don't say anything until we're in the car," I said. Mark clamped his jaw tight.

"I seriously did not know he was gonna cut it that short!" I apologized, as I started the car. "You heard me, I just told him to clean it up, not cut it all off!"

"HE CUT IT ALL OFF!" Mark boomed, smoothing his head where his mop used to be. "I'm bald!"

"You're not bald," I answered. "And besides, you're old enough to tell the guy how you want it cut! You could've told him not so short!"

"I think you owe me dinner," Mark said. "Take your bald kid out to eat." 

"Fine," I said. I really did feel bad that I'd promised him a minor hair cut, and he'd gotten the exact opposite.

As we sat in the patio of a local burger joint, Mark shuddered. 

"It's cold out here," he noted.

"It's like 80 degrees!" I replied. "It's not cold."

"Not to you," he smirked. "You have hair."

I sighed. I would not live this down for a long time.

Mark awoke early the next day. He said it was to take a shower, but he spent five minutes in the tub and 30 in front of the mirror, gently plying his hair with pomade. When he finally came out, I gasped again, but for a wholly different reason.

My little boy with a shaggy mop had transformed into a handsome young man with perfectly styled hair. He looked like a '50s movie star with his short, stylish hair slicked back. Seriously, it made him look five years older and ten times cuter.

And I wasn't the only one who noticed.

"Everybody loved my hair today," Mark told me proudly after band practice. "The girls all wanted to touch it." 

He ran his fingers through it and smiled, his bright eyes shining behind his long lashes, a dimple forming in his adorable face. 

And suddenly, I felt sick about his hair cut all over again, but for a completely different reason. I no longer worried Mark was mad about his short hair; now I worried the high school girls were all mad for it.

And as Mr. Good Lookin' strutted off to the other room, I sighed. Then smiled. Because seriously, how did a simple hair cut become so transformative, in so many ways?

Can I get a do-over on the high school topic?

Because me and Mark's high school, we got off to a bad start. 

It wasn't completely unexpected. I see now that Mark's first day of school was really just one big bundle of nerves he tried to hide behind a cloud of snottiness and scalding coffee. The cliche is don't cry over spilled milk (or coffee, in this case), so I'm moving on. 

Everybody's asking how high school is for Mark so far. The answer is...awesome! (Heather ducks nervously, hoping she hasn't tempted the fates into swinging the other way now.) Mark likes his classes and his teachers, and he's got tons of new friends. Marching band's going great, and he made the freshmen basketball team. Mark is seriously loving high school.

And I am finally coming to terms with it all.

Not that I was against it, per se, but this whole high school thing got to me a little this summer. 

I was really dreading it. Maybe even longer than I dreaded Mark going into 4th grade, which is famous for requiring kids to build a California Mission. (Seriously, I am not crafty or artistic in any way, and that project injected many years of anxiety into my life).

But I dreaded this summer more because it felt like the beginning of the end. The countdown. Like the last 10 seconds on New Year's Eve, except this time we aren't counting down to a new year, we're counting down to Mark going off to college. Moving away. Leaving the nest. 

And as the nest keeper, I don't really appreciate any of that. 

It all started the day after Mark graduated middle school. Like, LITERALLY, the next day. With barely 12 hours to enjoy the end of his middle school career, Mark was summoned to sports orientation at the high school. I sat in a gym filled with basketball players and their nervous parents, and the coach told us practice started on Monday. So much for summer downtime!

But Mark was stoked. He loves basketball, and he couldn't wait to start. He loved the team, he loved the coach. He didn't quite love all the running, but he didn't complain  (especially since it meant new running shoes, and Mark likes anything that nets him new shoes!). He was thrilled to be part of the team, and I was super proud of him.

Mark also went to percussion camp a couple times a week all through July, where he practiced with the drum line. In the middle of that, he went to sleep away camp. I missed him, and was so happy to see him when he returned that I almost burst into tears. He immediately asked if he could get back on the bus and go back for the second session. ("I missed you too, son!")

Then, in August, he gave up his last three weeks of summer to attend marching band camp.

He was not as happy about that, grousing about it the whole summer. I held my tongue--Mark hates anything new, but I knew once camp started, he'd be fine. Which is what happened. 

"Marching band is actually pretty fun," he admitted a few days into it. 

I hid my smile, knowing it killed him to say that out loud.

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked. "'You were totally right, Mom, I love band, thanks for putting me in it?' Is that what you said?"

He rolled his eyes at me, but I could see him smiling, too. "That is not what I said," he answered.

"You're welcome," I said, smiling back. "And I'm glad that you like it."

So, when school finally rolled around, Mark was not (overly) scared or worried about it. We had that one bad moment, but since then, it's been pretty smooth sailing. He likes his classes and all his new friends. I've driven him all over the place--band practice, band car wash, movies with friends, a beach party. He even gets himself to activities, too--today, he called to see if he could hang out with friends at the local coffee house. He took his own money and rode his bike there. 

And that is the real problem here...each step Mark takes toward independence is a step he takes away from me. I want him to be independent, but I am freaking out a bit over it.

It took me all summer to figure that out, to realize I'm not really sad about Mark going off to college someday soon. I'm mostly just sad about Mark separating now. About Mark doing exactly what I want him to do, what he needs to do--become independent of me, become a responsible, self-reliant young man. I keep pretending it's the future I'm worried about, when really, what scares me most is the now. Being Mark's mom is the best job I've ever had, and I feel like I'm being outsourced. My job is slowly moving offshore, and four years from now, I'll be downgraded to a part-time consultant instead of a full-time employee.

That's what I've grappled with all summer. That's why I couldn't write about all the silly, goofy things we did--because none of them felt silly or goofy, they all felt like big, important steps. I was afraid to recognize or acknowledge them.

OK, maybe he's not growing up as fast as I thought...

But I'm stepping into the light now. I finally get it. Mark is growing up, whether I want him to or not. And yes, sometime soon, he'll even move out. Away. He won't need me to watch over him.

But that day is not today. Today is a different day--the one where I finally stop worrying about the future, and embrace the present. Where I go home and play catch with my kid, because he still wants to do that. Where I take him out for ice cream, and we laugh about some dumb joke. Where I hug him, this man-child who is now the same height as me.

No day like today, huh?

And we start high school with a bang...

So it finally happened...Mark started high school today.

Here's how I thought it would go in my head:

Mark wakes up, excited, and dresses quickly for the big day. He eats, brushes his teeth, and agrees to the traditional first-day-of-school portrait. Then, I drop him off at school, wish him good luck, and drive off to work, a proud, tiny tear spilling down my cheek as I realize my baby's now a high schooler.

Well, part of that scenario came true--I was crying as I drove away, but not for sentimental reasons.

The morning started out well, with a palpable feeling of excitement in the air. Mark did a great job getting up and dressed. I'm pretty sure he even ate breakfast (but who knows, I was in the shower).

He brushed his hair and teeth, and I marvelled at how smoothly the day was going. I should've known better than to tempt fate...

"You're dressed?" I called out to Mark. 

"Yes, Mom," he automatically replied.

"You've got everything in your bag?"

"Yes, Mom," he repeated, sighing.

I eyed him skeptically.

"I said yes. Geez!" He stomped his feet and rolled his eyes. 

"OK," I said, grabbing my coffee mug. I also grabbed my smart phone, waved it at him, and said, "Let's go take that photo!"

Now, Mark is well-versed in the photo routine. I've taken one every single year of his entire school career. I prep him beforehand--he knows to hold up the amount of fingers corresponding to his new grade--and remind him that the faster he smiles, the faster we'll be done. 

But somewhere between the reminders and the front door, Mark's attitude changes. I think he's afraid some kid will walk by and see his mom taking photos, and it's too much for him to bear. The threat of becoming a social outcast kicks in, so Mark instantly rebels.

"Smile!" I said, and this is what I got:

"Seriously, Mark, just smile, and let's get this over with," I said, gritting my teeth. This is what I got:

"I've got all day," I told him. "Seriously, I do--I can wait here All. Day. Long."

He paused for a minute, then scowled. "You're gonna make me late!" he hissed.

"You're making yourself late," I reminded him. "Smile, and we can leave." 

And this is what I finally settled for:

Immediately after, my angry child ran for the car, slamming the door before I could utter another word. We drove in silence toward the school, until Mark suddenly gasped and said, "Oh man, I forgot my drum sticks!" 

I may or may not have shot back, "I asked if you had EVERYTHING." (Let's go with the response that makes me a nicer mom.)

Silence returned until I hit the traffic jam in front of campus.

"Take your diabetes supplies to the nurse," I told Mark, gesturing toward the back seat.

"I will, when I get out," he said. 

I helpfully pointed out that now was a good time to get the supplies. He just as helpfully ignored me.

Finally, done with the attitude and the long line of cars, I pulled over. Mark got out and started to slam the door again.

"Get your diabetes supplies!" I yelled, this time more angry than helpful.

Mark debated slightly, then returned, making a big show of it. He sighed again, then climbed across the console, smacking me with his backpack. But before I could say anything, a sharp pain shot into my thigh, and I instinctively started screaming.

I am not kidding you--SCREAMING. As in, bloody murder. As in, my leg was suddenly on fire and I instinctively responded with an intense primal shrieking so loud, an entire group of kids walking by stared in disbelief.

"STOP!" I shrieked. "STOP! YOU'RE BURNING ME!" 

Because in addition to smacking me, Mark also smacked my coffee mug, scalding me with my own hot coffee. (And now I had to start the day without caffeine--he literally added insult to injury!)

My leg was on fire, but Mark didn't stop--he stood there, confused by the shrieking, not sure what was happening, continuing to spill coffee onto me.

"GET OUT!" I shrieked in an unnatural voice 100 octaves higher than my normal voice. "GET OUT OF THE CAR! YOU'RE BURNING ME! GET OOOOOOOUUUTTTTT!"

I couldn't help myself--I'm usually far more patient, or at least, far less vocal. But my skin was ON FIRE, tears were streaming down my face, and pain was shooting throughout my leg. And to make matters worse, I couldn't even drive away. There was nowhere to go--ahead of me was a long crowd of cars, stopped at the red light. I couldn't even screech onto the street, or race home to change out of my now-sopping wet jeans.

And so I cried. I cried as I drove away from a confused Mark, I cried as I pulled into the traffic, I cried as I held the jeans away from my tingling skin. There was no place to hide from the kids walking to school, or from the parents dropping off their kids. I wasn't sobbing discreetly, gently, or quietly, and I realized someone might mistake me for an overly-dramatic mom reacting to her baby's first day of high school.

Which technically, I was, if you think about it. Maybe not in the traditional sense, but at this point, did it really matter? Not to my charred skin or damaged pride.

Or to Mark's social standing. The irony is that Mark wouldn't take a photo because he didn't want to embarrass himself in front of his peers. And now here he was, first day of class, before the whole school, as his wild, screaming banshee of a mom shrieked at him to get out of the car.

He wanted to make an impression on his first day, and boy, did he ever! 

Unfortunately, it may not have been quite the impression he was hoping for.

And it was certainly not the first day memory I was hoping for, either.