This morning a weary child stumbled out of bed uncharacteristically early and started the shower. Then the child towel dried and blow dried their hair in preparation for the flat ironing to come. That child? My son.
It seems that someone has put a bug in his ear that his thick, naturally wavy hair would look good if he flat ironed it. That someone, I have determined, is female. So as a result, the quiet, peaceful pre-dawn hours of the morning, have been pierced by the drill Sergent like orders of a 13 year old. Being that I don't want a pre-dawn visit to the ER for any flat ironed body parts, I have accepted the challenge of straightening his hair for him.
Last night, after a lengthy discussion about Japanese Hair Straightening and chemical relaxers - what they do, how they work, the damage they cause, etc. The boy asked me to flat iron his hair "as a joke". Well, not 30 seconds after I had delivered the punchline on that joke, texts were sent, Facebook status was updated and a new photo uploaded. Hilarious, right?
So here I am, sleep barely out of my eyes, listening to the little boss man tell me - " Don't swoop it to the left, I don't want it emo." "Why is it sticking up over there? I want it down." "How's the back? Is the back straight?" And while I was almost overcome with the impulse to flat iron his tongue as he was barking orders, I realized that this time that I could spend, bonding with him over hair, along with the fact that I have the skills to do so, is a gift. It's a gift because this child is usually nothing more than a moody mirage, flashing thorough a hallway, scarfing down the contents of the refrigerator in the middle of the night or asking for a ride hiter and yon. So I'll take the gift. Even though I probably won't appreciate it anymore by Friday morning.