I don’t pretend to be normal in any respect, especially not when it comes to hair. My hair makes me crazy– I actually started seeing my therapist almost 11 years ago when I became obsessed with the notion that I had cut my hair short because I was afraid of intimacy. Oh, and I was suicidal, but still, there was a very real hair theme that needed to be addressed. I diagnosed myself with hair PTSD, which is not yet in the DSM-V.
Moreover, when it comes to hair stylists, I am a total slut. I have no loyalty; I have never gone to the same stylist more than 2 times in my adult life. I hold the stylist responsible for the fact that I don’t have Kate Middleton’s hair (or her figure). In my defense, my mom has some hair baggage too– she’s been to every hair salon in Dallas, Texas, where there are just as many hair salons as street corners.
So it should come as no surprise that I am a little neurotic about my kids’ hair. I didn’t want either of them to get their hair cut. Ever. I wanted Simon to be like Kate Hudson’s
daughter son, Ryder, who has long, flowing locks. I somehow had the idea that moms who let their sons’ hair grow long are the free spirits of the mothering world. They are the mothers who exist outside of our culture’s destructive gender roles and transcend the antiquated notions about normative beauty and appearance.
So, you can imagine I felt like a big, fat, feminist failure when I made an appointment for Simon to get his hair cut.
But for the love of Betty Friedan, he couldn’t see because his bangs were in his face, which didn’t seem so RAH! RAH! GENDER-FREE WORLD! when he couldn’t see what the hell he was eating.
I also made a deal with Jeff early on: He could be in charge of Simon’s hair, but I am in charge of Sadie’s. That was supposed to be the arrangement as our family went to Snippets for Simon’s hair cut with our cameras charged and our hearts full of expectation.
When Simon got in the chair, I felt a spasm of panic: “No! Do not cut the little curls at the back of his neck!” I cried.
Jeff was busy managing Sadie who was trying to drink the shampoo, so I quietly told the stylist to just trim Simon’s bangs. She agreed and in a few snips she was done– before Jeff could protest.
However, next thing I know, Sadie was sitting in a chair with Simon’s stylist running her fingers through her hair. “What just happened? Hold the fuck up! I didn’t authorize this! I want her hair to GROW GROW GROW!”
Too late. Sadie was discussing her hair with the stylist; both of them were ignoring me. So, I did what any insane, Texas-born woman with decades of hair PTSD would do: I engaged in some stress eating. The only thing in my purse was two peaches, so I ate them both, pits included, as my baby’s tresses fell to the floor.
I tried to be cool, which isn’t easy when your digestive system is working on two peach pits. Jeff seemed to be enjoying my agony a little too much.
I almost died from the stress of the whole experience and it may take a while to recover from the breaches of trust in my marriage, not to mention the hurting I put on my GI track.
But, in the end, everyone’s hair looked great. Except for mine, which is why I wear this hat EVERY SINGLE DAY.