Bad Hair Day

Being the mother of three boys, I was a little disheartened that I would never french braid a daughter's hair, or put in those pink pig-nose spungy curler things on a saturday night. I thought that hair (or anyone that would care about hair) would, frankly, never be a part of my life.

Of course, I have kind of loved Not having to deal with it on Sunday mornings and other stressful times--wip out the water, comb that snarly cowlick a few times and run out the door.

But, Cy has changed all that. He is very into his hair. It all started with the faux-hawk--I still don't know how to spell it--but I'm assuming it's a fake version of the mo-hawk, hence the "faux"--but maybe it should be the FO hawk--as in my foe or my enemy--because sometimes it is that, too. Wow, that can get really deep. Who'd have thought?

Anyway, Cy is in love with his hair and he does his own every single day. He will not leave the house (and this is a new thing in my family) without it being done. He climbs up on the sink and he adds a little water and "jello" (gel) and shapes it just so. He's sort of moved on from shaping it entirely like the faux-hawk, but he moves his fingers and hands in just the right way to get this little spike or something in the front.

He looks cute and all is well until the day arrives that his hair is not doing what he wants and then I hear literal weeping and wailing from the bathroom. I do remember my brother Jeff throwing the brush and letting a few words slip out on Sunday mornings when the pressure was really on, but I've not seen that since in my male dominated family and so it has been kind of surprising.

And on this day, it wasn't going so well. But, I guess I do know how he feels.