Tears from The Ice Queen

My friends call me The Ice Queen.

Perhaps I should clarify. I’m not a cold person. I’d like to think that overall I’m warm and friendly (when I’m not being sarcastic and snarky.) But my friends refer to me as The Ice Queen because I have a reputation for being one of those women who never seem to cry at anything. Movies, books, news stories…not a drop. This is, of course, not true. But I can see how my friends might perceive this.

It’s not that I don’t cry. It’s that I don’t like crying at things that obviously try to manipulate me. For example, those movies that use music and dialogue and dewy sentiments that practically scream “You will cry now” at the audience. I hold it in just to spite them.

My friend and I went to see “World Trade Center” several years ago. Nicholas Cage starred in the true story of two Port Authority officers who were, against all odds, pulled alive from the rubble at Ground Zero. It was an incredibly moving story and my friend sobbed throughout the entire film. I didn’t sprout one single tear until the very end, when the main character is pulled out on a stretcher and he tells his wife “The thought of you kept me alive”. That did it. One solitary tear rolled down my face.

That same friend and I went to see “My Sister’s Keeper” a few years back. This was the fictional story of a girl who has to decide whether or not to donate her kidney to her dying sister. People were bawling all around me as the audience was bombarded with emotional images and maudlin music.

I shed not one tear. In fact, I kind of wished the folks around me would pipe down so I could hear the dialogue.

Thus my reputation as the Ice Queen grew. My book club would discuss books that had everyone in tears at the end...everyone, that is, except me. Even in bible study, while I was touched by the personal stories shared, I would remain dry-eyed while people around me reached for the tissue box. What’s wrong with me? I wasn’t always this way.

When my children were small, they took music classes in Scituate and at the end of every 8-week session, Miss Beth would play “Pomp and Circumstance” and hand out graduation certificates to the children. My eyes watered every single time. The same thing happened when Miss Vicky played the Olympic theme song as my kids showed off their toddler gymnastic skills at TumbleFun and placed medals around their necks. And the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life” always left me in tears. (“To my big brother George…the richest man in town!” Sniff…sniff).

So what happened? Have I become hardened with age? Is it my changing hormones as I approach fifty? Have I run out of tears? Whatever the reason, I’m no longer crying at the drop of a hat. Yet, I don’t think the term “Ice Queen” is completely appropriate.

Where are these people when I’m standing at a baseball game listening to the Star Spangled Banner? As soon as they get to the line “Oh say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave?” and people start cheering, my throat gets tight and tears spring to my eyes.

Or how about when I took my kids to see “Toy Story 3” and had to wipe my face constantly during the last 20 minutes with butter-stained napkins? That scene where Andy reluctantly hands over Woody and all his other toys killed me. My friend looked at me askance over the top of my son’s head as I dabbed at my eyes. Was the Ice Queen really crying over Toy Story?

Worst of all was this past week at 4th grade memory day. The event was my son’s graduation from elementary school and I warned everyone well in advance that the Ice Queen would be bustin’ out the tears. One friend said, “Take a picture for me, I want to see what that looks like.”

For one hour and fifteen minutes, I sniffed and snuffed and dabbed at my eyes. From the first strains of “God Bless America”, the waterworks began. As the children marched into the gymnasium, I cried. When the principal read an emotional speech about giving our children back to us, I cried. When we watched a multimedia presentation featuring our kids, I laughed…and cried. When the principal said, “I give you the 2011 Graduating Class of Sylvester School” I cried. And when she asked the students to turn around and applaud their parents, I bawled. My son caught my eye and mouthed the words “I love you.” I mouthed the words, “I love you too” as the tears streamed down my face.

True to my word, I took a picture for my friend just so I could prove that even the Ice Queen is capable of melting every now and then. I’m only human. But don’t expect to see me dabbing at my eyes in the movie theater anytime soon.

Unless, of course, they decide to make Toy Story 4.

Twist(er) and Shout

As a parent my job, first and foremost, is to keep my children safe.

This is no easy feat. When our children are babies we lash down car seats and nestle them in beds with crib bumpers. When they are toddlers we install child locks and safety gates. As they grow we insist they ride their bikes on the sidewalk and wear their helmets. We admonish them when they run with a lollipop in their mouths or a stick in their hands.

We do our best right up until the moment they leave us at which point we cross our fingers, say a prayer and hope that all our lessons will be heeded as they climb the kindergarten bus, drive off with license in hand for the first time or enter their college dorm room.

Still, despite our best efforts, as parents we can only do so much.

I still vividly remember the horror of September 11, 2001. I had a 3 year old and a 6 month old. That day my children climbed the jungle gym and dug in the sandbox at a local playground, blissfully unaware of the hate and destruction that was occurring a few hundred miles away. As I watched them play, a sick feeling formed in the pit of my stomach, growing stronger with each passing moment: the realization that no matter what I do, I can never fully protect my children.

This feeling was reinforced last week when my son and 191 other students and chaperones from the middle school band and chorus went on a field trip to Six Flags in Agawam. The trip is an annual event, and my son had been chattering about it excitedly for months. Being a nervous mother, I was worried about his safety on several levels; rides designed to toss his body around at high speed; the park’s proximity to a city known for its crime; a cold which had caused his asthma to flare up.

Still, I knew that part of my motherly duty was to let him go and trust that he would do everything in his power to keep himself safe. He had his inhaler and the chaperones would keep an eye on everyone throughout the day. All the bases were covered.

What I didn’t plan on, however, was a tornado.

The forecast for the day was hot and humid, with the chance of severe thunderstorms in the afternoon. I hoped that perhaps the bad weather would skirt the area around Six Flags or turn foul sometime after they left the park. As the wind picked up in my area, a mother of another child on the trip texted me a copy of a weather alert she had received on her phone: “A tornado watch has been issued for most of Massachusetts”.

I knew the difference between a “watch” and a “warning”; a watch means severe weather is possible while a warning means that severe weather has been observed, or is expected soon. Though the idea of even a possible tornado made me uneasy, it seemed highly unlikely and so I tried to tamp down my fears.

Shortly before the kids were due to leave the park, another mom called and asked if I was watching the weather reports. She said that a severe thunderstorm was 20 miles west of Six Flags and moving fast. The tornado watch had been upgraded to a warning. I called my son, who had just gotten off a ride, and told him to start heading toward the busses. I felt like that scene in the film “The Perfect Storm” where the female boat captain tries to warn George Clooney by screaming, “You’re heading right into the mouth of the beast.”

Over the next hour I divided my time by trying to reach my son on his cell phone, texting and calling other moms with information, and praying. One friend said she received a text from her daughter saying a tornado was going by and the bus was shaking. She didn’t know if her daughter was joking or not. I somehow managed to miss a call from my son, who left the following message: “Mom, you will not believe this. I have literally just seen a tornado form next to the bus and it’s cutting a path of destruction across the road”. Another mother called to tell me that one of the teachers was phoning the same information in to the local news.

Thankfully, the middle school busses were spared and quickly left the area, heading home. According to a friend who chaperoned the trip, the drivers were in constant contact with their superiors who instructed them on which route to take to avoid the worst of the weather. Still, as I listened to reports of additional tornadoes, lightning and hail, I continued my prayers until my son walked safely in the front door.

My son, unaware of the true devastation of the storms, thought the trip was an adventure. He was more intimidated by some of the roller coasters than the tornado that swooped by his bus. It wasn’t until the next morning when news stations reported the extent of the damage and the lives lost that he was truly able to process just how close a call it had been for them.

And for me, this experience served as yet another reminder that, despite my best efforts, I cannot always keep my children safe. Thankfully, the bus drivers, chaperones and God were able to fill in for me on this one.

For Love of the Game

I have a new appreciation for baseball.

I’ve always enjoyed professional baseball. Growing up in New Jersey, my friends and I followed the Mets. This continued with my first post-college boyfriend who was a hardcore Mets fan and nearly cried with joy in 1986 (sorry Sox fans). I then became a Red Sox fan when I began dating my husband, who actually did cry with joy in 2004 and 2007 (not much crying lately though).

My renewed appreciation for baseball comes from my son’s recent return to a 4th grade baseball team.

Both of my children played t-ball in Kindergarten. I have to admit that I thought the “t” stood for torture. Baseball can be a slow game, but t-ball can be interminably slow. The t-ball field is conveniently located at the intersection of two extremely busy streets, with no fence to keep spectators or players from running out into the road. At the time when my 6-year old son played t-ball, my -3-year old had to remain strapped into his car seat in my van watching videos for the duration of the game. The alternative was to spend an hour and a half chasing after my toddler, trying to keep him from becoming a grease stain in the road.

I did appreciate the tee which allowed my sons to actually hit the ball (most of the time). However, when my kids were in the field, they failed to grasp the finer points of the game. Whenever a ball was hit anywhere near them, they (and about 20 of their teammates) would run in a clump towards the ball, hoping to be the one to grab it. Not that there would be anyone left on base to throw it to (they would all still be in that clump). At the end of every game, just when I thought, “Thank God, it’s over,” the coaches would inevitably say, “Hey, how about one more inning?”
My older son played a year of rookie ball, but after repeatedly being reprimanded for sitting down in right field, he admitted that he found baseball to be too slow and boring. That year he switched to soccer instead.

My younger son never picked up a bat or glove after a year of t-ball. The game was just a little too slow for him, and his frustration level at never actually catching the ball (too many kids nearby) proved overwhelming. We stored our baseball gear in the garage.

Fast forward four years. My younger son is now in 4th grade, and just when I thought soccer was his game, he suddenly announced that this spring he would like to take another crack at baseball instead.

“Are you sure you don’t want to do soccer again?” I asked hopefully. Soccer involved only one practice and one game a week.

“Nope, I want to try baseball.” He said firmly.

Reluctantly, I signed my son up for a baseball skills class at an indoor sports center. The 12-week class taught him the basics of hitting and fielding, while adding in plenty of running and stretching as well. It also included an invaluable private batting lesson and an hour of free batting time every Friday night. He also participated in a week-long skills camp over April vacation. Trying to cram four years of baseball experience into three months wasn’t easy, but when the first game rolled around, I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

He was disappointed with his first at bat: he struck out. A few silent tears rolled down his face as he struggled to keep his composure on the bench. This did not bode well. The next time at bat he walked. The next time… another walk.

After a couple of games, I nicknamed him Walker Texas Ranger since his strength lay in the pitcher’s weakness. A few more games and he started getting hits. He got an RBI. He stole second base. He stole third base. He started chewing sunflower seeds and giant wads of gum. His motivation for playing well is the snack bar next to his field. A game that was once too slow for him is now just his speed.
And my attitude has changed since t-ball. Though I initially prayed for rainouts, I’m now okay spending two nights at the field every week. Game night dinners are casual (hot dogs or pizza). Though baseball games last twice as long as soccer games, there is an unhurried, languidness to the game. What felt interminably long a few years ago now feels like an opportunity to slow down, enjoy a warm summer night, socialize with other parents and cheer on all the players equally.

I’ve come to enjoy watching my son play. I like hearing his infinitely patient and supportive coaches call his name in their thick, Boston accents: “Coop-ah!” I like that he doesn’t get upset if his team loses. I like that he feels good about himself.

And I like his answer when I asked if he wanted to play summer baseball.
“No thanks, it’s too hot.”

Whew!

Wagons Ho!

Amidst all the rain, drizzle and fog of recent weeks, for one brief day the skies cleared, the sun shone, and Cub Scouts from all over the South Shore enjoyed a day of fun and friendship at the 2011 “Chuckwagon “ , held at Camp Squanto on May 21.

My younger son has been a Cub Scout for three years. As a Webelo, he participated in the Klondike Derby this past winter. For the uninitiated (that would be me), the Derby allows Scouts to demonstrate their skills in fire building, tent assembly, first aid, citizenship and a host of other areas. As they drag their sled from station to station, the scouts earn points, and winning packs are acknowledged at the end of the day. This year’s Klondike happened to fall on one of the coldest days of the winter. Add in all the snow we received this year and it made for a challenging day. My husband, knowing my intolerance for the cold (“You won’t last 20 minutes”) graciously offered to take my son to the Klondike while I enjoyed the comforts of central heating.

Fast forward four months to The Chuckwagon Derby, an event designed purely for fun. Scouts decorate a wagon according to a theme, don costumes and parade through Camp Squanto, and then spend the day participating in fun activities. Given that the event is held in (relatively) warm weather (and my husband’s prior commitment to coach my other son’s soccer team), it was my turn to chaperone.

This year’s theme was Disney. My son’s pack chose “Toy Story”; an ordinary wagon was decorated with a camouflage tank constructed entirely of cardboard boxes and tubes. A large round bin that had served as a recycling bucket in a previous life was painted to look like Andy’s Bucket of Soldiers. Each scout was decked out in army green pants, jackets, helmets and boots, looking for all the world like those plastic soldiers featured in the film. I guess my son isn’t the only one who frequents the Army/Navy store.

I spied a few other Toy Story wagons that day, as well as a group of scouts in white t-shirts with black spots (a nod to “101 Dalmatians”) and several “Maters” from the film “Cars”. However, there was a plethora of pirates. Apparently the release of Disney’s fourth “Pirates of the Caribbean” film inspired quite a few dens to don eye patches and bandanas in hopes of channeling the soul of Captain Jack Sparrow. This was no surprise given that many Disney films revolve around princesses; of course the scouts were going to choose movies that embrace guns and swords.

The boys visited stations throughout the day that combined scouting skills and general kid fun. The “Magic Carpet Ride” had scouts creating a stretcher from a blanket and two poles, toting teammates around to several points where they could answer questions about Disney movies. At “Space Mountain” they built homemade rockets from colored paper and launched them into space with a contraption made of PVC pipe, duct tape and an empty soda bottle. Several rockets got stuck in the treetops, in direct contrast to the “leave no trace” rule. “Mickey’s Monsoon” sounded ominous (we knew water would be involved), and the kids were delighted to find a rig that resembled a reverse dunk tank. Rather than throwing beanbags and dunking an adult in water, the kids attempted to trigger a water balloon to splatter on the grown-up’s head. Had I known that the other parents and I were going to become part of a wet t-shirt contest I would have packed extra clothes for myself in addition to my son’s.

After lunch the boys got down to the good stuff: BB guns and archery. Although many of our scouts were familiar with paintball and air soft guns, my son was a novice. I’m sure that wearing head to toe camouflage fanned the flames of his excitement as he listened carefully to instructions on how to safely load and shoot his weapon. For five glorious minutes the boys blasted away with Red Ryder BB guns (I resisted the urge to yell “You’ll shoot your eye out.”) Upon hearing “ceasefire” they obeyed like good soldiers and waited till it was safe to retrieve their targets. My son proudly held up his paper and showed me his direct hit in the center of the paper. Apparently all those hours spent playing “Call of Duty” on the Wii had paid off.

The packs headed back to the parade field mid-afternoon for the judging results. Each group had been given voting slips at the beginning of the parade with the opportunity to vote for best wagon design and best costumes. The kids in my son’s pack were ecstatic when they heard their pack number called as the third place winners for both wagon design and costume (First and second place in each category went to pirates…surprise).

At the end of closing ceremonies, the scouts and their families were given the option of setting up camp and staying for a campfire and skits. Tired but happy, my son opted to head home to show his older brother his prized BB target and tell about his day. In all, the Chuckwagon was an experience neither of us would forget.

So you still may not see me at the Klondike Derby next winter, (even if it’s a mild winter) but you can bet I’ll jump aboard the Chuckwagon in 2012.

A Few Font Memories

Throughout my life there have been only a few men who have had a profound influence on me. First to mind is my father who has always been, and continues to be, a steady, stabilizing presence as I navigate the waters of childhood, adolescence, adulthood and parenthood.

My 11th grade Humanities teacher, Mr. Michaud, was a life-loving free spirit who somehow managed to get hundreds of self-centered, hormonal teenagers to share his passion for Federico Fellini films, e.e. cummings poetry and Saul Bellow stories. Every field trip was an adventure; every class was an exercise in absorbing the emotion, beauty and spiritual essence of the world around us. Long before Robin Williams starred in “Dead Poets Society”, Mr. Michaud was urging his East Brunswick High School students to “Seize the Day.” Years later, I would remember Mr. Michaud on my wedding day as a friend read my favorite e.e. cummings poem during the service.

Certainly my husband has been the most influential man in my life. What began as a work relationship blossomed into friendship and then love. He has been my biggest cheerleader throughout our 16 years of marriage, the voice of reason when I fly off the handle, the ever-patient father of my children, my partner in crime and the person who believed in my writing even when I didn’t believe in it myself.
This brings me to the next influential man in my life: My soon-to-be-ex-boss Matt Gill. When my predecessor, Cathy Harrington, chose to retire from writing this column, it was my friend Julianne who pushed me to call and ask for the position. But it was Matt who gave me the job, opening the door and allowing me to find my voice as a writer.

I’m sure I sounded a lot more confident than I felt as we sat down outside the South Shore Natural Science Center for my “job interview”. I was picking my kids up from camp and Matt was heading down to this office in Marshfield. Given that this was my first interview in years, I prepared a resume and brought several writing examples from my blog. I must have said or done something right, because Matt gave me the job and asked me to have my column in within a week.

That was nearly three years and 147 columns ago (but who’s counting?) I have to give Matt credit for allowing me complete creative freedom over my topics. Whether I wrote about pre-sliced cheese, smug Christmas letters, talking to your child about 9/11 or recipes for spam and bean pie, Matt’s feedback has always been overwhelmingly positive. Headlines have never been my strong suit, so I’ve left that particular chore up to him, which yielded such beauties as “Wii are enjoying our new video game system” and (my personal favorite) “My Undying Love for Zombies”.
While I appreciate feedback from family and friends, I look forward each week to Matt’s opinion. There’s something about being critiqued by a fellow writer that carries more weight than anyone else. And I’m flattered that Matt sought my opinion on his articles and columns as well.

Sadly, this will be the final column that Matt critiques as he leaves his position at The Mariner and turns his creative talents to corporate writing. I’ll miss the headlines, the comments, the bad puns and the humorous emails we’ve shared. Though he’ll no longer be my boss, I’m glad that he’ll still continue to be my friend.

Good luck Matt.

Do You Remember Your First Concert?

Do you remember your first concert?

I put this question to several of my friends this week because I took my son to his very first concert. My friends’ answers ran the gamut of musical tastes. Some were cool: Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, U2 and Jethro Tull. Others were less cool: Andy Gibb, Back Street Boys and New Kids on the Block. Bands like Bob Seger, Charlie Daniels Band and Kool and the Gang fell somewhere in the middle.

My first rock concert was not really rock but pop. It was Shaun Cassidy, brother of teen heartthrob David Cassidy of “The Partridge Family”. I has Shaun’s album (back in the wonderful days of vinyl) and listened to hits like “That’s Rock and Roll” and “Hey Deena” for hours. When his tour came to the tri-state area, someone (my parents?) bought tickets. I have a vague memory of the concert, sitting in nosebleed seats while a tiny white dot the size of an ant belted out “Da Doo Run Run”. I screamed and sang with all the other teenage girls and went home satisfied with my first real concert. I assumed I was 11 or 12 at the time, until my older sister recently burst my bubble. “I took you to that concert, remember?” she reminded me, “I had just gotten my license and we drove all the way out to the Nassau Colliseum”. Doing the math I realized I must have been 15 when I saw that concert. An 11 year old seeing Shaun Cassidy is sweet. A 15-year old seeing Shaun Cassidy is lame.

As I grew older I walked that fine line between cool and lame with subsequent concerts: The Kinks were definitely cool, but Styx (who I still love) falls on the lame side of the fence. Queen was cool, and Cheap Trick was cool and The Ramones were definitely cool (even though they played at Six Flags). U2 and Bruce Springsteen were cool as well. Def Leppard was interesting (saw them in London). Peter Gabriel was quirky. Lyle Lovett, James Taylor and his brother Livingston were all laid back. A recent AC/DC concert was super cool and super loud. Looking back at the handful of concerts I’ve attended, I would definitely say they were more cool than lame. However, I can’t help but think that you are somehow defined by the first concert you go to.

This is why I took such great pleasure in bringing my older son to see My Chemical Romance this past week at The House of Blues. For those of you not familiar with the band, My Chemical Romance’s music, according to Wikipedia, is described as “…a blend of gothic rock, punk, heavy metal, glam rock, metal and progressive rock…” I became enamored with their music when they released their 2006 album, “The Black Parade”, and dragged my husband to the DCU Arena to see their concert. With his tastes trending more towards blues and The Grateful Dead, my husband indulged what he assumed to be a mid-life crisis moment and sat dutifully in his seat as I cheered and yelled and sang my way through the concert.

Fast forward a few years to MCR’s next album, “Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys”. As I perused their website I noticed an upcoming tour date at The House of Blues. I knew either my husband or a friend would indulge me again, so I purchased two tickets. Much to my surprise, in the months between purchasing the tickets and the concert itself, my older son became a fan of the Danger Days album. Back in 2006 he would hold his hands over his ears anytime I’d try to play “The Black Parade” and beg me to put on something else. I guess I couldn’t expect a 9-year-old to appreciate the nuances of their music, but with age comes wisdom and I suddenly found myself living with a full fledged MCR fan. When he asked if he could join me at the concert, I agreed.

After loading all of the band’s music on my son’s iPod, showing him their videos on YouTube and letting him read a few interviews in music magazines, he was frothing at the mouth to go. The bands’ single “Sing” was featured in promos for American Idol and used in an episode of “Glee” (much to Glenn Beck’s dismay). Suddenly MCR was everywhere.

We drove into Boston on the designated evening with my son wearing my Black Parade tour t-shirt (it looks better on him). Arriving at the House of Blues we walked to the end of a line which stretched all the way down Lansdowne Street, through the alley and behind the House of Blues. As we took our place at the back of the line, I noticed many teens and twenty-somethings in the crowd, but also several kids younger than my son and quite a few adults older than myself. As we entered the House of Blues, my son experienced his first security pat-down. We took our place in the floor section, about 50 feet from the stage and waited…and waited…and waited. My son’s concert initiation included not one but two opening acts. He deemed the first “pretty good” and the second “slightly more demonic”. Nearly three hours after we had entered the House of Blues, My Chemical Romance took the stage.
My son and I spent the next 90 minutes jumping, dancing, cheering loudly and singing along with each song. As the band blasted their hits, I snuck a peak at his jubilant face and knew that bringing him had been the right decision. When the music ended, we bought a souvenir t-shirt and walked out of the House of Blues, slightly more deaf than when we walked in. We returned home at midnight, tired but happy.

Years from now someone will ask him about his first concert. Hopefully he will smile and remember the night when he and his mom bonded over a “cool” rock and roll band.

Children are the Heirs to our Hair

I confess I watched a portion of the Royal Wedding last week. I turned it on shortly before the ceremony began, and as I watched the footage of Prince William and Prince Harry waiting at the altar for Kate Middleton, one thought kept cropping up in my mind.

Prince William is seriously going bald.

Standing next to Harry with his enviable head of thick, red hair, it was obvious to all that William had inherited his father’s balding pattern. My thoughts turned to my own children and the ways that they have become our “hair heirs”.

As a child, I absolutely could not stand my hair. Thick, curly and unruly, I favored my mother’s follicles while my sisters had the same smooth, straight locks as my father. The neighborhood bullies nicknamed me “Brillo”, a name that still brings a shudder forty years later. I suffered through long hair, short hair, a brief period when I tried to curl it into “wings” (thanks a lot Farrah Fawcett) and then settled on what could only be described as an afro throughout my high school years. College wasn’t much better and it wasn’t until my twenties that I discovered the value of a good conditioner and some serious hair control products. After experimenting with hair color (blonde, brunette, redhead, I’ve been them all), I’ve pretty much reverted to my natural brown in a more styled, controlled version of my high school afro. Other than the grey that is creeping in here and there, I don’t foresee a radical change in my hairstyle anytime in the future.

My husband has very straight, fine hair. Growing up in the sixties, he was encouraged to grow it as long as he liked (both his parents had long hair). The only bump in the road was his yearly summer visit to his grandparents in Williamsport NY. Though his parents were borderline hippies, his grandparents were straight out of “Leave it to Beaver”. A career military man, his grandfather’s first order of business each summer was to march my husband straight to the barber for a buzz cut. If his grandparents had known that my husband would start losing his hair in his late twenties, perhaps they would have been inclined to let him keep his lush head of hair during those summers.

Fast forward a few decades to my own children. My older son seems to favor his mother’s hair type. Born bald, his white blond curly toddler locks have settled into a thick nest of coarse light brown curls. He prefers his hair long and while I wouldn’t classify it as an afro, I can see that without proper grooming and hair product it could eventually evolve into one. Long gone are the days of the “boy’s regular” cut he received as a child. The stylists at Just Hair Cuts know him by name, and sharpen their hedge clippers when they see him coming. The result is a somewhat manageable mane which typically gets mashed down due to the baseball caps he insists on wearing at all times.

My younger son, on the other hand, favors buzz cuts and Mohawks. While we try to convince him to let his hair grow in the cooler months (it keeps his head warm) as soon as the weather turns he’s clamoring for a buzz cut. Given free reign, he’d take the shortest setting on the hair clippers. Though he has a lovely scalp and I do enjoy the feel of his “peach fuzz”, the “1” setting makes him look like a post-chemo patient, which unnerves me. I urge him to let the stylist use the “2” or “3” setting on the clippers. For months he has been asking for a spiky Mohawk. My excuse has been, “not till after the school talent show.” Of course, the day after the show, he convinced me to bring him to the hair salon whereupon they shaved his sides down to peach fuzz and waxed the middle till he looked like a rooster. He loves it and I’m getting used to being poked by his spiky points when he leans in for a hug.

So be it short, long, thick, thin, curly or spiky, I’ve learned to let my children express themselves through their hairstyles (within reason). The important part is that they enjoy their hair. Because they need only look at my husband to see their potential future:

Hair today…gone tomorrow.