He’d kill me if he knew I was writing this - no matter how much I love and adore him. He is thirteen now, a teenager. I am no longer a child he informed us last week. In his still-high child’s voice. Hmm.
His friend E and he have been talking for a while about getting mowhawk haircuts, like E’s big brother. Went to pick him up from a sleep over at E’s last weekend and there they were, E and F sitting on the sofa with their brand-new mowhawks, looking like a pair of young cockatoos, still wet behind the ears.
Their sculpted crests were held aloft by a massive amount of product provided by E’s big brother. But even at their spikiest the mowhawks didn’t look very shocking. E’s Mum hadn’t shaved their heads completely, left it short and sleek on the sides - done a pretty good hairdressing job I thought. Though I tried to act at least a bit disapproving - I mean what’s the point of a mowhawk if your parents think it looks cute?
Body-piercings, tattoos, different matter altogether, and please may they go out of fashion soon, before he’s old enough. But hair - do what you like - it grows back.
The next day, F’s splendid cockscomb had collapsed, and it looked, I thought like a quite stylish haircut. But what would I know? I found him gazing tragically into the bathroom mirror.
My old hair gel, expiry date 2007, retrieved from the depths of the bathroom drawer, failed to save the day, in fact made matters worse: sticky and limp and icky-smelling.
I look crap, he announced morosely. He jammed the awful football beanie his dad bought him on his head and it stayed there for several days. Everyone at school, he said thought his hair looked crap. Like a metro-sexual. Pressed, he wasn’t quite sure what a metro-sexual was, other than a person with un-cool hair. (I’m not sure myself)
Coupla days later - we were kicking the soccer ball back and forth on the lawn - I noticed that the mowhawk had re-arisen phoenix-like into a pointy, sweet-smelling mountain range, shining in the morning sun.
You got some proper gel, I say
Yeah, he says
Someone give it to you?
Yeah (giving the ball a good kick)
One of your mates, E?
Nuh...
One of the kids on the bus?
Nuh...(kick)
Someone in your class?
Yeah..
One of the boys?
Nuh (a little smile breaking out)
Hnm, one of the girls then, mmm
He assumes an exasperated ‘Don’t you know anything?’ expression and says
Actually...well haven’t you ever heard of a girlfriend?
(keep kicking the ball)
Oh really , who is it?
Not telling....
...and the little smile again....
Sorry no pic of The Mowhawk, but I have this thing (possibly paranoid) about not wanting my boy’s photo on the internet...
Here is a photo of his bedroom - dear old Tintin and even the footy heroes now all but obliterated by The Simpsons
3 comments:
Great story
You made me really laugh, thanks, your story-telling skills show, yes they do, and yeah, your son is really cute.
I hope he doesn't read the comments either :-)
My son (a bit younger than yours) did the mohawk thing too, but did not want to put the effort in to styling it so off it went. I feel the same as you about photos of my kids (and, yeah, even naming them).
And, man, a girlfriend? and he's not telling? My heart would go zunk.
sigh. I love your story-telling style.
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