For the last year or so, Milo has been growing his hair long on the top. In my mind this is ok since as a child of the 80’s, I always wanted to have my head with shaved sides and long locks on top. I mean, who didn’t want to look like they were part of the Smiths? So despite promising never to try and live vicariously through my kids, I am trying out hairdos through Milo that my balding pate won’t support. The problem with Milo is that he won’t cut any of his hair and so his head starts to look more like a big foam microphone instead of a slick model’s signature style. It also makes him look even younger than he really is. So my worldly, 10 year old actor/model looks six. Not really helping with his self-image.
My wife and I have been pushing him to get more control over his messy microphone head and are constantly showing him different ideas that will make him seem in better control of his hair. These attempts have been fought off with the enthusiasm and determination of 300 Spartans faced by an army of Greeks. Why we teach our kids to stand up for themselves and think critically on their own, I’m not sure. They are only supposed to do that when faced with peer pressure to do drugs or drink and drive. I never planned for them to resist my sage wisdom.
Enter into the equation my new found enjoyment of watching Marco Reus playing for both Germany and Borussia Dortmund. Now there is a dude with awesome skills and a wicked haircut. I may have a bit of a man crush but that may be another post. So I started in on Milo just before a scheduled hair appointment. Milo’s love of soccer is only slightly more than his love of hearing me offer my wisdom to him. So, naturally he attempted to be the philosophical immovable object and I played the irresistible force. Unfortunately for Milo, I have studied all of the times that I have failed to be immovable in the face of my children and waited for the slightest waver. When he finally admitted that Marco did indeed have stellar hair, I knew I had him. I got him to concede that it might be an all right thing to do, sometime, maybe.
The next day, before he was really awake, I’d loaded him into the car and began ignoring his back pedaling pleas. To ensure my victory, I brought along his IPad complete with all the images of Marco’s fine styling to show our stylist. Once ensconced in the chair, my delightful offspring offered full arm chair quarterbacking for every snip of the stylist’s scissors. He glared at me through
the mirror with a venom that would do Medusa proud. Normally a reluctant communicator, he mouthed crystal clear comments to me like “I hate you, you bastard!” and “I’m never going to forgive you for ruining my life, career and any chance of ever getting on the Disney channel.” And then he made his worst mistake, in a fit of disgust he fumed, “Why don’t you just dye it some stupid colour too?” That was too enticing for the stylist and me. We had a slather of white blonde dye in his hair faster than he could gasp. By then he was too flabbergasted to do anything other than moan. His little head was wrapped up in plastic wrap and he was plunked under the hair dryer. His sister jumped up and down with glee, pointing out to everyone in the salon that her brother looked just like an old woman sitting there. Oh, did he fume!
As he later looked at the damage in the mirror, he teared up and refused to speak to me. He looked about 5 years older, hair tight at the sides and back, long tresses on top and the very front section dyed white blonde. The best looking kid I’d ever seen, he stormed out of the hair dresser’s and we wandered through the mall. He did his best to hide it, but I caught him admiring himself in store mirrors and he was finally forced to admit that he did look great but hedged that he still hated me for making him do it. I savoured my sweet victory for days. Yay me!