Bad haircuts get worse when kids give you advice
By Belinda Ray
2007-04-17
I look like Carol Brady.
At least thatıs what Iıve been thinking for the last 24 hours, because every
time I look in the mirror, instead of my own reflection, I canıt help but
see Florence Henderson staring back at me.
Actually, itıs not Florence Henderson, not exactly. Itıs her hair: those
unmistakable winglets curling outward from behind my ears, the heavy bangs
threatening to eclipse my forehead. Itıs Carol Brady circa 1971, and Iım not
wearing a wig. I got a bad haircut.
I walked into the salon seeking a trim and I walked out with a mullet. Itıs
not an extreme one; the business-in-the-front has a little bit of play, and
the party-in-the-back is more like a childıs birthday gathering than a
triple kegger, but itıs still a mullet. Or at least mullet-y. And Iım not
amused.
In fact, last night when I arrived home, the first words out of my mouth
were, ³Itıs awful, I know,² to which my partner replied, ³It looks ...
cute.² But it didnıt. Not in the least. If I were an eighth grade boy,
maybe, but Iım not.
One of my sons tried to console me with, ³Itıs only hair, Mom,² echoing a
sentiment Iıve uttered countless times since my guys, at age 4, decided
never to have their hair cut again. Since then, nearly every quarter-inch
trim that Iıve imposed upon them has resulted in snarls of, ³You cut too
much!² to which I have calmly replied, ³Itıs only hair. It will grow back.²
But this is my hair weıre talking about here. My hair, and my face, and my
body that no longer recovers as quickly from exercise and injury as it once
did.
DıOH! Who said that?
All right, it was me, and apparently thatıs what this whole haircut thing
comes down to. I didnıt figure it out until after the 12th time I caught
myself scowling in the mirror and just before the 7th time one of my sons
started to throw my own conciliatory words back at me.
Itıs not like my hair was anything to write home about before, but it was,
well ... young. Jaws used to drop when people first learned that I had two
children. ³You? a mother?² Now I imagine them saying, ³Are they your only
two or do you have a few off in college somewhere?² Because now, not only
does my hair resemble Florence Hendersonıs I resemble my own mother more
than ever.
Donıt get me wrong, my momıs beautiful, always has been, and Iıve thanked my
Lucky Charms more than once that I inherited her eyes, her nose, her figure,
and yes, her hair. But come on, sheıs my mother. Iım supposed to look 30
years younger than her, not exactly as she did when I was the little kid
redirecting her words of wisdom.
You know, itıs strange the way it all comes around even stranger that a
simple haircut could set off such a torrent inside my head. But the
strangest part of all? Itıs been 3 days now. Iıve had time to play with my
hair a bit, and you know what? I really like it.
At least thatıs what Iıve been thinking for the last 24 hours, because every
time I look in the mirror, instead of my own reflection, I canıt help but
see Florence Henderson staring back at me.
Actually, itıs not Florence Henderson, not exactly. Itıs her hair: those
unmistakable winglets curling outward from behind my ears, the heavy bangs
threatening to eclipse my forehead. Itıs Carol Brady circa 1971, and Iım not
wearing a wig. I got a bad haircut.
I walked into the salon seeking a trim and I walked out with a mullet. Itıs
not an extreme one; the business-in-the-front has a little bit of play, and
the party-in-the-back is more like a childıs birthday gathering than a
triple kegger, but itıs still a mullet. Or at least mullet-y. And Iım not
amused.
In fact, last night when I arrived home, the first words out of my mouth
were, ³Itıs awful, I know,² to which my partner replied, ³It looks ...
cute.² But it didnıt. Not in the least. If I were an eighth grade boy,
maybe, but Iım not.
One of my sons tried to console me with, ³Itıs only hair, Mom,² echoing a
sentiment Iıve uttered countless times since my guys, at age 4, decided
never to have their hair cut again. Since then, nearly every quarter-inch
trim that Iıve imposed upon them has resulted in snarls of, ³You cut too
much!² to which I have calmly replied, ³Itıs only hair. It will grow back.²
But this is my hair weıre talking about here. My hair, and my face, and my
body that no longer recovers as quickly from exercise and injury as it once
did.
DıOH! Who said that?
All right, it was me, and apparently thatıs what this whole haircut thing
comes down to. I didnıt figure it out until after the 12th time I caught
myself scowling in the mirror and just before the 7th time one of my sons
started to throw my own conciliatory words back at me.
Itıs not like my hair was anything to write home about before, but it was,
well ... young. Jaws used to drop when people first learned that I had two
children. ³You? a mother?² Now I imagine them saying, ³Are they your only
two or do you have a few off in college somewhere?² Because now, not only
does my hair resemble Florence Hendersonıs I resemble my own mother more
than ever.
Donıt get me wrong, my momıs beautiful, always has been, and Iıve thanked my
Lucky Charms more than once that I inherited her eyes, her nose, her figure,
and yes, her hair. But come on, sheıs my mother. Iım supposed to look 30
years younger than her, not exactly as she did when I was the little kid
redirecting her words of wisdom.
You know, itıs strange the way it all comes around even stranger that a
simple haircut could set off such a torrent inside my head. But the
strangest part of all? Itıs been 3 days now. Iıve had time to play with my
hair a bit, and you know what? I really like it.
Belinda Ray is a homeschooling mother and freelance writer who finds time to
write when her children and their friends have lightsaber battles in the
yoga room (but only if the laundry is already folded and everyoneıs been
fed).