A Hairy Situation

Hair has always been a sensitive subject in my household. After my parent’s divorce my mother felt a new sense of freedom as she decided how her hair would be cut for the first time in twenty-eight years. As an adolescent, my great act of rebellion was to cut my waist-length hair into a pixie cut. It was no surprise to me that my son would feel just as strongly about his locks.

Last week my boyfriend Mr. Excitement was talking about getting his hair cut. His hair is getting shaggy again and hanging down to his shoulders. We thought it would be an ideal opportunity to get Bubba to trim a little of his hair out of his eyes.

“Nooooo! Not my hair!” Bubba cried at the very mention of it.

“I’m going to get my hair cut.” Excitement cajoled.

“Okay. You get yours cut.” Bubba agreed, his hands clamping down on his head. “Not MY hair.”

“We’ll just cut it like this,” I demonstrated, pretending to snip a quarter inch of his bangs, “Just to get it out of your eyes, Baby.” I pleaded.

“Not MY hair,” he repeated.

In the end we left it alone. If he felt that strongly about it he should have it the way he wanted it. It wasn’t hurting anyone.

Bubba has always had long hair. When he was born he had a full head of dark hair. It was smooth and straight and reached halfway down his neck in the back. It was beautiful and we didn’t dare cut it.

As he got older his hair lightened from Perfect’s dark black to my sandy blond. We had it shaped into an Owen Wilson-like surfer shag. It flipped up on the ends and hung down across his brows. He’s so proud of it. He twists it around his fingers when he’s thinking. He blows it out of his face when he talks.