As a mom, I’ve always tried to instill a strong level of self-confidence in my boys. There’s nothing more frustrating than watching someone you love grapple with feelings of insecurity…and yet, I realize it’s absolutely inevitable.
The problem with all your children being the opposite gender is you don’t always know what to expect…much less what’s going to be high on their list of priorities and what'll be so low, they could care less. Add to that the constantly-changing age factor…and I’m basically operating in the dark.
Up the creek…not a paddle in sight.
Rock? Hard place? Me.
Connor is now 13. He’s tall. He likes that. He’s thin…which may or may not matter at all. What has become of utmost priority of late is his hair. Evidently (and unbeknownst to me) Connor’s hair has slowly begun to change…from its straight, never-even-needs-to-be-combed texture...
…to something wavy and moderately unmanageable. What I'd assumed was his need for a trim is apparently a change in texture.
He’s more than a little unhappy about it. Whether it’s hormones or the onset of a steamy, humid summer…he’s made no secret that this simply will not do.
Me? I’m torn. I certainly don’t want him to think less of himself if his hair doesn’t look stellar…I mean, yikes…it’s just hair.
(Zip it, Clinton….you’re not helping.)
But Connor’s my son…and well, he knows I have a fondness for good hair days, not to mention a literal arsenal of beauty products aimed at taming the frizz-beast. It must be pretty important…’cause he’s basically willing to try anything.
I tried telling him that taking out the garbage and picking up one’s dirty clothes has been clinically proven to improve the look of one’s hair. He’s not buying it.
The last few mornings, we’ve tried a plethora of products…from leave-in conditioners to “silk stylers” to “hydro-foaming styling gel”…all with less than impressive results. He’d arrive home looking tired, disheveled and miserable.
The 13-year-old girl within me wanted to shout, “Save yourself! It’s all downhill from here till you’re about 18 and you go on the pill and it miraculously, hormonally changes your hair back to some semblance of ‘normal’. Oh, wait….scratch that….you’re freakin’ screwed, bud.”
His morning routine was taking longer and longer…between the rinsing and the foaming and the blow drying and the spritzing and we weren’t getting anywhere. So, this morning I broke out my ultimate weapon: The Metropolis Ionic Digital Flat Iron.
His hair was stick-straight when I finished….a few light bursts of firm-hold hairspray and I proclaimed it the best it was gonna be.
I don’t think he’s ever loved me more. It lasted through a crappy, rainy day…hell, it even lasted through gym. I’m his hero…I’ve been elevated from Woman Who Knows Nothing to Hair Goddess Extraordinaire. I rock….I’m golden.
But, there’s still 11 days of school yet. Crap. I think I’m screwed…