Mom gets played. Again

My urgent question that night: When can I get my son’s hair cut?

The costume director’s jaw dropped slightly. She recovered. “Um, well, any time. He just needs a haircut which can be parted on the side and then slicked back. Young Elvis style. Anything is ok-just nothing drastic.”

One of the parents mutters, “Yeah, don’t give him a Mohawk.” Murmured chuckles in the room. Other parents stare me down like I am half crazy. I sink in my seat.

All summer long my son had been telling me he couldn’t get his hair cut because that might interfere with the school musical he was performing in. I had to wait until late August and get specific instructions on the most appropriate haircut.

For the entire summer I let my son run around with ragamuffin hair. His hair looked like birds could nest in it. The grandparents were not happy. I explained it all as “it is for the good of the show.”

Later at home, when I question my son about the haircut he says, “Well, maybe I forgot to include the word ‘drastic‘. It’s just you always make me get my hair cut sooo short that there is no way I could part it on the side.”

He does have a point, but I still have the feeling I’ve been played.

I tell him he is going to have his hair cut tomorrow by my hairdresser. I will tell her I want my son to look like a young Johnny Cash.

 

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