Ever get a cold? Like, the kind of cold that slaps you right in the face, beats your body senseless until you’re rendered lifeless in bed for days? Yah, that’s the kind of cold I’m talking about. Men, I’m not talking about your kind of cold where the sniffles leave you helpless, causing you to revert back into a fetal state and you’re callin’ your mama for some soup and sympathy.
A few years back, I was sick. Wicked sick. And as a mom of three, I can’t afford to be sick because the world inside this little colonial home of mine still goes on. Breakfast still needs to be made. Lunches still need to be packed. But not on this day. This wasn’t just any day. This was Halloween day.
The alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. and I got up, took cold medicine, and went back to bed. Hubby had offered to take care of the kids for me. Sweet. So I fell back to sleep, tucked in up to my neck in blankets, comforters, and my big fluffy pillow.
But something woke me up. In my medicine-induced haze I could make out the shadow of my son; he had ribbons and barrettes and wanted to play with my hair. Sweet. So, I fell back to sleep again.
When I woke up for the 3rd time, something was different. I noticed the pillow first. What is that? There was something on the pillow. Wait, there’s something on my face, too. What the heck? Am I still dreaming? It was hair. Why would hair be on my pillow? And then the realization that it was MY HAIR!
I lunged out of bed, tripping on the blanket, and landing on the floor, where I saw more hair. I couldn’t get to a mirror fast enough. And then I saw it. The scissors. And holding the scissors, my 5-year old son.
“Mama, I made you hair pretty” he beamed. If by pretty, you mean cut the entire left side of my hair to my ears, leaving the entire right side of my hair, long past my shoulders…damn right I’m pretty!
Luckily, I had my hair stylist on speed dial – I mean, if ever there was a hair emergency, this was it.
I came back from the salon in mourning over my new bob, but pleased with the cut, and being symmetrical again.
As I walked through the door, my son looked at me. He then spun me around and checked out the new style. After a few minutes of pensive thought, he spoke. I thought it was going to be an apology. I thought he was going to cry, knowing how long it had taken me to grow my hair out. I thought perhaps a hug?
“I did a better job!” he said, smiled, and walked away.