The other day, my 14-year old son asked me if he should shave the tiny, blond mustache that is barely visible on his upper lip. I said no. Actually, I yelled it. Now, I know that seems like an extreme reaction. But you have to understand that we have had bad shaving experiences in my house.
Take the time my son shaved his head. Yeah. His head. He was 8. And apparently it wasn’t a fashion statement. And no, it wasn’t a protest against me or the establishment or anything else. He just had nothing better to do with his time. So he shaved his head.
And it was probably all my fault.
You see, after a long afternoon in the pool, I sent him to the shower while I made dinner. Unfortunately, he couldn’t use his shower since we were putting tile in his bathroom. So he used mine. Now I took the razor out of the shower and told Junior not to use it.
My bad. See, to an 8-year old saying “don’t touch,” translates to “this is a really cool tool and you should use it to shave the back of your head the minute Mom leaves the room.” So Junior did exactly that. Actually, I think he started on his legs first. He’s a very hairy kid. So he shaved his legs and then started on the good part. The back of his head.
And then, to make matters worse, he actually got out of the shower, disposed of the hair, got his pajamas on and came to the dinner table. He sat down, he ate, he conversed. He was even suspiciously polite and charming—frankly, I should have been tipped off that something was amiss when he burped and then APOLOGIZED without me prompting him. But no. I actually thought maybe, just maybe all the lessons about manners were actually getting through to him.
Again, my bad.
It wasn’t until he did something really extraordinary—he took his plate and placed it on the counter AND asked to be excused—that I caught a glimpse of his freshly shaved head.
I’m sure you heard me. I’m certain that people in 40 miles away heard me. In fact, that scream may just be known from now on as the “Scream Heard ‘Round California.” Because it was loud. And shocked. And horrified. You see, my son did not shave a little part of his head. No, he took most of the hair on the back of his off. Clear to the top. And because I had just changed the blade that morning—he was bald. Bald as a baby’s butt.
Right after the scream pierced the air, Junior realized his mistake. He slapped a hand to his bald spot and said, “Do you like it?” He even had a hopeful little grin on his face.
How was I supposed to answer that? “Yes, dear, I think you look excellent with a large bald spot in the middle of your head.” Or maybe, “You can’t even see it, despite the fact that your scalp is completely white and your hair is nearly black.” But instead of answering, I marched him into the bathroom and showed him the back of his head.
And then it was Junior’s turn to scream.
Okay, I admit there was a bit of satisfaction in his horror. But in the meantime, it was nearly 7:00 and I knew I had to find someone out there who could fix my son’s head. So he went to get dressed. And that’s when I noticed his legs. They were also smooth as a baby’s butt.
But you know, we did manage to find a hairdresser. And she did manage to make his hair look okay—but really, really short. But the best part happened a few days later. That’s when the leg hair started growing back. And itching. And it taught Junior once and for all that when I say “don’t touch the razor.” I mean, “don’t touch the razor.”Add me to your rss reader | Become a Fan on Facebook!