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.

Royal Wedding

Don’t tuck away your Easter bonnets just yet. In less than 48 hours, millions of Americans will set their alarms to 4 a.m. in order to don their most regal finery and tune their televisions to the most anticipated event of the 21st century: The royal wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. All across our country businesses will close, allowing employees to stay home and wait with baited breath for a glimpse of Kate’s bridal gown. School children will be kept home in order to take copious notes on every detail of the royal nuptials. Life as we know it will grind to a halt as every man, woman and child weeps in joy for this long-awaited, blessed event.

At least that’s what the media would have you think.

Seriously, I don’t actually know anyone in my circle of friends that plans to watch the wedding. But you’d never know it based on the 24-hour royal wedding coverage that our American news outlets are ramping up as we count down to the big day. It feels like The Today Show’s Meredith Vieira has been in London for about 6 months now, visiting with the royal hat maker and collecting souvenir plates of Wills and Kate. Even our local news reporters have been in the U.K. for several days, looking for new angles on an event that has already been beaten to death long before Kate’s dainty foot has even set foot inside Westminster Abbey.

Why this fascination with British Royalty? After all, weren’t they the reason our forefathers escaped to this country in the first place? Why the change of heart? Is it because we kicked their butts in 1776 and saved those same butts in WWII that we’ve softened towards the monarchy? Or maybe it’s because we invested ourselves so heavily in the last “fairy tale” wedding between Lady Diana Spencer and Prince Charles, only to be disappointed. Rife with adultery, disapproving in-laws, bulimia and the tragic death and subsequent sainthood of Princess Diana, that particular fairy tale ended on a “Grimm” note.

Apparently, the media thinks we can’t get enough of William and Kate’s big day. But how can one royal wedding hope to compete with Lindsay Lohan’s jail sentence, Charlie Sheen’s Torpedo of Truth tour and the ever-changing “who’s dissing who?” on The Real Housewives of New York? I can see why the Brits, who still love their royal figureheads, are willing to put their lives on hold until the last piece of wedding cake has been eaten and the newlyweds have fondly waved farewell from the balcony at Buckingham Palace. But what makes the media think those of us “across the pond” are as interested as our British brethren?

Maybe it’s because we have a soft spot in our American hearts for Diana’s motherless boys. The two young princes appear to have inherited Diana’s playful nature, easy smile and empathetic spirit. Call me a foolish romantic, but the fact that William and Kate have been together for several years indicates real affection as opposed to a carefully engineered merger for the purpose of royal procreation. There may not be any fairy tale ending, but perhaps Wills and Kate have a shot at a loving, happy life together.

So for the sake of international relations, I’ll make time on Friday to enjoy a scone with clotted cream or a healthy serving of spotted dick (Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s a spongy cake-like dessert that has raisins in it. Look it up). I won’t drink tea, but I’ll have a good old American cuppa Joe while I turn on the telly and see if it’s worth all the fuss.

But just a peek.

Disposable Dishwashers and other Appliances

We live in a disposable society…

This should not come as a shock to those of us who drink bottled water, blow through Kleenex and turn up our noses at cloth diapers (full or empty).

In a time when that same bottled water has an expiration date, (seriously?) we have come to expect a short shelf life from the items we use and consume daily.
But I draw the line when it comes to appliances.

I’ve started to notice that dishwashers, dryers, washing machines and microwaves have developed shorter life spans. One friend commented that it used to be that your second set of appliances was the ones you died with. Not so much anymore. My parents have lived in their home for over 50 years, and they are only on their second washer and dryer. Even those were replaced relatively recently. This begs the question:

At the age of 75 and 80 respectively, will my mom and dad outlive their second set of appliances or will their appliances outlive them? Given the way these machines are now manufactured, my money’s on Mom and Dad.

When we moved into our current house, the dishwasher was working at less than peak performance. Dishes would sometimes come out dirtier than they went in. We called in our friends from George Washington Toma to solve the problem (we were frequent fliers with Toma back in the early days of homeownership). Our service technician advised us that it would be better to purchase a new dishwasher than to repair the old one because, “…dishwashers really only have a life span of about ten years.”

Ten years? Seriously? I’ve heard this phrase repeated often over my time as a homeowner (as ovens and dryers and other appliances have bit the dust) and I immediately defer to my in-laws who have had the same dishwasher, refrigerator and oven since they rebuilt their house in the early 1970’s. Apparently the 40-year old dishwasher is about as rare as the 40-year old virgin (apologies to Steve Carrell).

Granted, my in-law’s appliances are avocado-colored and honestly I have not since seen a stove that has only one large burner and three small ones. Yes, the dishwasher is so loud that it sounds as if the entire house is blasting off into outer space during the rinse cycle. But the point is they still work.

One friend in particular has had more than the usual share of appliance issues. Her refrigerator died and had to be replaced a few years ago. Then her microwave started turning itself on. Sometimes the numbers on the digital readout would convert to hieroglyphics. Not wanting to risk her family’s safety she replaced it. No sooner did that occur when her four-year old front-load washing machine died. The technician told her it would be $1600 to fix (it cost $900 new). Time for a new washer.

If we are a modern, technological society that can create miniature computers that hold tens of thousands of songs in the palm of our hands, why can’t we create a dishwasher that lasts longer than ten years? Were our forefathers from the 1970’s more advanced than we are today? Remember the “good old days” when the Maytag repairman moped through commercials with nothing to do?

You would think in today’s go-go-green society, appliances should last longer instead of cluttering up landfill every 10-15 years. What is the benefit of a new appliance every decade? The answer might surprise you (it surprised me). My current dishwasher, age twelve, had a problem and I brought our trusty friends from Toma in to fix it. “You sure you want to spend $125 to fix this, instead of buying a new one?” the repairman asked me? I assured him that I did. When I asked him why these newer models had a shorter life span than the trusty workhorses of the past he replied that materials used in older appliances are less likely to be able to be recycled. Newer models are able to recycle a much higher percentage of parts, so less goes into the landfill.

That makes sense. I understand the logic. But I still don’t feel like shelling out hard earned cash for a new appliance every decade or so.

So I propose a deal:

Give me a dishwasher that will last me another 40 years, and I promise that my family will bury it with me when I finally go.

That’s fair, isn’t it?

A Head Scratching Dilemna

The mind is a powerful, dangerous thing.

Last week I had the uneasy feeling that I might have head lice. Or bed bugs. I wasn’t exactly sure which one it might be, but I was nearly certain it was one or the other.

It started with a conversation at work. A co-worker casually mentioned that her daughter had contracted head lice. For the second time. As soon as she uttered the words “head lice” my scalp and skin started to itch. This happens to me anytime someone talks about head lice. Add in the fact that my hair is quite thick and curly, and it’s easy to imagine what a nightmare head lice might be for me.

However, I had not come into contact with anyone who actually had head lice, so I told myself that the chances of contracting it were miniscule. Eventually the itching abated.

A few days later, I had a conversation with a couple of friends about antiquing and buying clothes at secondhand stores. One of my friends who is a bit “germ phobic” said, “I can think of nothing more horrifying than walking through dusty antique stores and trying on used clothing.” She then went on to say that she read an online report stating that clothes bought in consignment stores was three times as likely to be infested with bed bugs. Even if the clothing itself is clean, it hangs in a person’s closet for who knows how long against other items of clothing that might not be bug free.

I laughed off her comment and then went home, at which point my scalp and skin started to feel itchy again. I asked my husband to look through my hair to be sure there wasn’t anything crawling around up there. Sighing with exasperation, he pawed through my scalp like a zoo monkey at grooming time and assured me that there was nothing taking up residence in the roots of my hair.

The next night, still slightly itchy, I settled down to watch a movie. The film was “The Switch” starring Jennifer Aniston and Jason Bateman. It’s a modest enough comedy, predictable and forgettable. However, the part of the film that had the biggest impact on me was the scene where the child of Jennifer Aniston’s character contracts head lice and her friend has to de-louse him. The extreme close-up shots of Jason Bateman running a comb through the kid’s hair and picking out nits nearly sent me into a conniption of itching.

After checking my scalp again my husband wearily explained that my itching could be caused by any number of things including the dry winter air or possible…ahem… hormonal changes.

As I showered the next morning, my gaze happened to fall on my bottle of hair conditioner. I had run out of Pantene, my usual brand, a week before and decided to give Garnier Nutrisse a try, since it seemed a more wholesome, natural alternative. (I’m a sucker for marketing) It didn’t matter that my son thought it smelled “like barf”. Hmmm. Could that be the culprit?

I switched back to Pantene the next day and though my itching isn’t completely gone, it’s back to its regular pre-Garnier status quo. Though I hate to waste a nearly full bottle of conditioner, it’s now relegated to a spot underneath the bathroom sink, in case we ever have house guests that prefer that brand.

I’m no longer convinced that I have parasites living in my hair. Switching back to my old conditioner helped cure the issues on the outside of my head. If only I could find something equally effective for the inside of my head.

And yes, for those of you who are curious; writing this column makes me itchy.
Sigh.

Welcome to the Teenage Years

I am now the mother of a teenager.

Do you ever get that “how did I get there” feeling? You know, the one when you travel the same route every day, and even though technically you are paying attention to the road and cars around you, your mind zones out and you find yourself miles closer to home thinking “How did I get here”?

That’s how I feel about suddenly becoming the mother of a teenager.

I use the term “suddenly” but this is actually an event that was thirteen plus years in the making. All the morning sickness, labor pains, sleepless nights rocking an infant, car seats, skinned knees, first days of school, recorder concerts, play dates, sleepovers and overdue library books finally add up to that milestone that heralds a whole new era of uncharted territory: the teenage years.

Of course, I vaguely remember my own teenage years, with shifting friendships, awkward moments, acne, insecurity and changes that made me feel as if my body was not my own. It was a terrible, wonderful, painful part of my life and when I emerged safely on the other side, I thought to myself, “Whew…Thank goodness I don’t have to go through that again.”

Except I do. But this time I get to live every uncomfortable, frightening, messy and crazy moment vicariously through my child. It’s amazing how the mind can block out whole chunks of memories. My own teenage years are buried in my mind somewhere beneath the countless seasons of “Survivor” and the plots from every trashy book I’ve ever read. I can’t remember how difficult I might have been towards my own parents (though I’m sure they’ll be happy to remind me once they read this).

I’m sure I was disrespectful and arrogant and a know-it-all when I was a teen. My days were spent alternately fighting with my parents and my siblings. Without cell phones, Facebook or the internet, the social dynamics at that time were certainly less complex, but turbulent just the same. Through junior and senior high school my core group of friends evolved and settled, but still contained dramatic incidents warranting teary phone calls and frantic scribbling in my journal. My body went through changes that I found both fascinating and repulsive. If I only knew then what I know now about the even more horrific changes thirty years in my future, I would have appreciated that teenage body more than I did.

But what good is all this knowledge and experience when my own child is sure to eschew my wisdom and turn to his friends, the media and pop culture for guidance? Eventually I’ll be relegated to the role of the ignorant parent who can’t possibly know what her teenager is going through.

I’m steeling myself for that day when my own newly-minted teenager decides that he’s just too embarrassed to be seen with me. When instead of greeting me with a smile and a hug he brushes past me with a grimace and a grunt. He’ll spend endless hours holed up in his room, iPod blaring in his headphones instead of recounting every detail of some ridiculous program he saw on Cartoon Network.

We’re not there yet, but I can see him inching his way ever closer. Until then I’m going to focus on the benefits of having a teenager in the house. Someone who (occasionally) helps shovel snow in the winter and mows the lawn in the summer. Someone who can watch his younger brother when I’m not home. Someone that still comes out to the car and offers to bring in my grocery bags. Someone who shares my love of British comedy and zombie movies and doesn’t mind sitting next to me in the theater instead of four rows behind me.

So if you see me around town and I look a little more frazzled than usual, just remember; I’m the mother of a teenager now.

Dispatch from the Pinewood Derby

There’s a feeling of excitement in the air. Pit crews are standing by and crowds hold their breath as the flag drops and the wheels hit the track. If you breathe deeply, you can catch just a hint of…graphite.

The Pinewood Derby is in town.

For the uninitiated, The Pinewood Derby is an annual event for boys in Cub Scouts. Tiger Cubs up to Webelos receive a kit containing a block of wood and some wheels and must design, carve and paint their vehicle into whatever shape they desire. Google “Pinewood Derby” and you can find a treasure trove of images of vehicles from past years. The Derby also has very specific rules about size, shape and weight of the car. No springs can be added, and the wheels and axle provided in the kit must be used.

Typically the kits are passed out to the scouts several weeks before “Race Day”. This gives the kids ample time to dawdle, tarry and procrastinate, ultimately rushing to finish their car mere hours before the start of the first heat. At least, that’s how it goes in my house.

On race day, the entrants bring their cars to the race location for the official weighing. Pity the poor scout whose car is over the 5 oz mark. At this point, fathers frantically pop off any additional lead weights that have been added to the car, or drill holes in the vehicle to remove unwanted ballast. The race itself lasts for approximately 6-8 hours (ok, that’s not quite accurate, it just feels that long). All the cars are given a chance to race in all four lanes so that everyone’s car has fair advantage. As the day winds down, the winners from each heat face each other until there are just a select few who take home the much coveted trophies. Everyone else goes home with a snazzy medal.

A great part of the Pinewood Derby is that the children are supposed to do most of the work themselves with minimal parental assistance. However, much like the annual science fair, it’s easy to tell whose projects have had more than a little “help” from an overeager parent. A friend of mine wrote a hilarious blog about The Pinewood Derby last year in which he opined that the young scout with the winning car must have had a father who worked for Boeing, given the aerodynamics on their extremely well-crafted entry.

This year was my son’s third year of racing in the derby. His first year’s car was a pretty basic design. He sawed (with my husband’s help) his block into a triangular shape. He then sanded it and painted it a forest green color, then added a white smiley face with a demonic expression. He christened it Mr. Happy. Though he didn’t do so well in the various heats that year, it was fun to listen to his den mates chanting “Mr. Happy! Mr. Happy!” as it rolled down the track.

Last year he chose an hourglass shape, painted orange with yellow flames. The car had the impressive name “Inferno” and though he came in first and second place in most of his heats, his average was dragged down by the fact that his car flew off the track in one of its runs. Trying to assuage his disappointment, I pointed out that his design was just too fast for the race.

This year’s car was shaped like a drop of water, painted electric green and titled “Acid”. My husband and son headed out to the Derby and I promised to follow in an hour to see his car run. Twenty minutes later my husband bolted back in the door. “What’s wrong?” I asked as he brushed past me and headed straight for the garage. “It’s one tenth of an ounce over!” he wailed as he grabbed his tool kit and drill and raced back out the door.

A short time later, I arrived to find the derby in full swing. With two four-lane tracks running simultaneously, the scout leaders were able to keep the action going as the crowd of scouts and parents cheered from the sidelines. In addition to my son’s car, I noticed some really interesting designs including several that contained Lego decorations (which didn’t always stay on the vehicle), a car that looked just like the DeLorean from “Back to the Future” and what looked to be a mostly unfinished block of wood on wheels.

Sadly, Acid did not fare well this year. It came in third (out of three) in three heats, moving up to second place during its final run. While my son was disappointed that his hard work didn’t yield more favorable results, I hugged him and told him that my most proud moment of the day had nothing to do with his car’s performance. At one point he had noticed some younger scouts were laughing at a car that had gotten stuck not once but twice at the track’s halfway mark. Knowing their laughter might hurt the feelings of the car’s owner, he firmly said, “Don’t laugh at that. It’s not funny.”

So while his automotive designs may not earn him any trophies, his compassion that day definitely made him a winner in my book.

Charlie's Sheen is Starting to Wear Off

Gee, I wonder what Charlie Sheen is doing today?

I say that because apparently nothing else is happening in the world right now. I mean, it’s not like we had not one, but two earthquakes (one in Christchurch, New Zealand and the most recent in Japan), a tsunami, an overthrow of one Middle Eastern government and civil unrest in several other Middle Eastern countries resulting in an increase in oil prices. We have our own “civil unrest” in Wisconsin, and a repeat of The McCarthy Hearings with Muslims as potential targets in place of Communists.

But forget all that, because what I really need to know is what Charlie Sheen is up today.

I admit that I am as guilty as any of my friends who have been watching with fascination the train wreck that is Charlie Sheen rocket out of the station and head full-speed towards a destination of self-destruction and mayhem. I’ve seen the parodies on Saturday Night Live, Jimmy Kimmel and Regis and Kelly. I’ve been sent links to the “Charlie Sheen Quote Generator” and been solicited to buy t-shirts that say, “Duh. Winning!” on the front. My own children have roamed the house parroting that phrase over and over until I want to scream.

But I’ve had enough. There’s no reason to beat this dead horse anymore. I was never a huge fan of “Two and a Half Men”. The few episodes I’ve watched seemed to revolve around the Charlie character’s lecherous, drunken behavior. Is the program that brilliant that it warrants Sheen’s million dollars per episode paycheck? Is he really irreplaceable? Some of you may not remember “Bewitched” but those of you who do know that the character of Darren was played by two different actors. As was Catwoman on the television series “Batman”. When Suzanne Somers chose not to return to “Three’s Company”, another blonde actress stepped in without pause and the show continued. Cheryl Ladd easily replaced Farrah Fawcett in “Charlie's Angel’s”

But this is not just about a television program. It’s about watching a pop culture icon implode. We can’t resist staring as public figures like Brittany Spears and Lindsay Lohan take one misstep after another, landing themselves in jail, rehab and, unfortunately sometimes, the grave. We’re fascinated when Mel Gibson begins spewing racist, misogynistic rhetoric, or when Christian Bale has a temper tantrum on the set of his new movie. Can you blame us? These clips are played over and over on television, the radio and via the web. We can’t escape it.

There was a time when the name Charlie Sheen brought to mind an actor with decent films to his credit (“Platoon”, “Wall Street” and “Major League” to name a few). Now he will forever be associated with words like “Tiger Blood”, “Adonis DNA” and “Vatican Warlock Assassin”. His children have been taken from him, one of his “goddesses” has moved out, he leaves a trail of unhappy ex-wives in his wake and he has taken to the internet with a series of entertaining, horrifying rants that leave many of us wondering whether they are fueled by drugs, mental illness or both. I can’t look at him now without feeling sympathy for his parents and siblings. I keep hoping he’ll pull a Robert Downey Jr. and turn his life around, but that seems unlikely at this point.

The latest gem is that Charlie Sheen is taking his madness on tour, performing live “comedy” shows in Chicago and Detroit. Entitled “My Violent Tornado of Truth/Defeat is not an Option”, the program promises more of the same craziness we’ve seen in recent weeks, albeit in a live setting. If the show comes to Boston, I’ll opt out. Call me a troll but my life is crazy enough.

Winning? Well Charlie, I guess if you call racing towards an inevitable finish line of humiliation, degradation and possibly death, then yes, you are indeed winning.