My Little Airbender

If you have young boys, you have probably had the wonderfully awesome privilege of being able to (subjected to, forced to) see one of the many “boy saves the world” movies: The Last Airbender. The kid in it is awesome, he does great things, and above all else...he’s bald (with a huge arrow tattooed on his head). This post isn’t about the movie at all however; it’s the bald thing we are focusing on here.


Have you ever had one of those days where everything is just “off”?  This was one of those days that started so horribly that I knew in my gut that I REALLY should have just crawled back under the covers and slept for another 3 hours.


I woke up too late, had a bad dream, which means I started the day in bad mood (why the hell did my hubby forget my birthday???).  Where did that ache in my hip come from?  Fuck, I slept wrong.  Spilled coffee on myself, now I have to change my shirt, and...even later to work. Blah.


People at work are in a pissy mood, calling to tell me how pissy they are. Evidently they feel I must have been born yesterday and have no clue what I am talking about. Really? On such and such page, line such and such of the guidelines, does it not say I am right and you are wrong?? Now my pissy mood even is even pissier. ARGH!


Get the call from hubby when kids get home from school that they were horrific little devils in class - grounded! I drive home from work behind some idiot that seems to think it is Sunday fucking afternoon (beware of my future posts about idiotic WA drivers...sue me! I learned to drive in L.A. where you get in your car to actually GO somewhere) and now I am home later than expected. Grrr.


Oh wait! I am hosting book club at my house tonight. Shit! I have to make something to feed these ladies. Throw together an appetizer plate, that is subpar by my standards but will just have to do (hummus, crackers, cheese, etc. – proper noshing items when most will bring sweets), ok – now I can change out of my work clothes. Ahhh.


“Mom, didn’t you say you were going to cut my hair today?”
Shit. “Yes, ok, take off your clothes to your undies, buddy, and wait in my bathroom.” Because god-forbid there be a spec of hair in the kids’ bathroom since guests will be arriving shortly. Clippers? Clippers....where are the clippers? Ok, there they are. Broom and dustpan? Got it, I can do this.


“Ok, honey, let’s cut your hair.”
“Not too short, Mom.”
“Well, we want it short, honey, since you hate getting your hair cut so we only do this, like, once every 3-4 months.”
“Ok, but not too short, Mom.”
“Ok.” bzzzzzz. “FUCK FUCK FUCK!”
“What, Mom, what?”


Tears ensued.


I truly meant to put the clipper guard on a #2...but in my haste forgot the guard altogether. Yes, now my kid is bald, and I mean bald. I can’t fix this. I started on the top at the front (who fucking does that anyway?); there is no backing out now. Amidst the tears from my dear, sweet, loving, wonderful little boy (yes he was a devil at school today - so what, he’s my son, he’s awesome!) and my “it’s really not that bad” comments while I am thinking – I AM THE WORST MOTHER EVER – I continue to shave this poor kid until he’s completely bald. Except that now that he’s bald, I can’t cover up any “I didn’t go to beauty school this isn’t my real job” mistakes. Every tiny little extra hair shows. I can’t do this.


I give him my favorite Ducks beanie (Yes, hockey.  You gotta a problem with that?) because he can’t wear a regular baseball cap, since it doesn’t cover ALL of his head. “I can’t go to school like this, Mom, everyone will make fun of me.” This is a disaster.


Now I am bawling. I have ruined my little boy. Pepsi is crying harder “Mom, its ok. I like it. It will be ok, mom, please don’t cry. You didn’t mean to. I forgive you. Please don’t cry.” Seriously? Whose kid is this anyway? I just ruined your head and you are worried that I am upset? GAWD, I love my son.


By this time (sensing my impending complete and utter mental breakdown - like the good man he is), JW steps in and whisks both kids away so I am able to compose myself (read: drink 2 glasses of wine) before book club arrives. “I will take him to get it fixed” he says, and off they go.


I do my best to compose myself before the ladies arrive, and by the time they do, I am able to relay the horrific story to them without again bursting into a hysterical fit, albeit the tears did well up. “When they get in, ask him to show you his head and tell him how cute he looks, please???” I say, in hopes that their encouragement will ease my baby’s broken heart.


He comes in later on and everyone says in unison “Come here! Let me see!” to which he takes off his hat and A exclaims: “You look like the Last Airbender! It looks so cool!”


That’s it! The haircut has just become a little more awesome in his eyes. He puffs up his chest and stands a little taller, “Really?”


“Oh yeah, totally!” A says (remind me to buy her a coffee, or something, the next time we’re out).


Pepsi beams, his day has officially been made. All is right in his world. I am off the hook – well for now.

Wishes she had started the day drinking and had a better excuse for this royal fuck up: Mimosa M.D.