"Your hair looks hideous." I say to my son Ethan.
There, I've said it. I've actually made a negative, rather bitchy declarative statement, completely disregarding my son's feelings, self esteem, or future character development in hopes of advancing my own aesthetic agenda. God, it feels so good to just say what I feel as opposed to the usual conversational mediation I must resort to in hopes of getting him to perform the smallest, most inconsequential tasks such as eating his broccoli, brushing his teeth, or re grouting the upstairs bathroom. My seven year old son who is as argumentative as any trial attorney, negotiates EVERYTHING. I constantly find myself relegated to the role of determined district attorney (Think Julianne Moore or Laura Linney) to his sanctimonious public defender. Each and every request on my part is treated like a federal case, requiring ceaseless explanations, justifications, and evidence. My son rarely responds to reason. My patience begins to wear thin as the case drags on interminably. My role quickly changes from professional district attorney, to tough-as-nails judge (Think Kevin Spacy) determined to prosecute the little shit and place his lousy, entitled ass in the pokey.
My son's eyes go wide as my voice rises and the veins on my throat begin to stand out. Unfortunately, I am now completely lucid, my Grey Goose 'mommie's helper' buzz having been officially killed and my rational, district attorney demeanour now a thing of the past. I've officially entered that hideous 'things-I-promised-myself-I-would-never-say-to-my-kid' land.
"Your hair is brittle, broken, and has absolutely no style." I shriek. "I'm tired of all this bullshit negotiating. You're getting it cut whether you like it or not! Now get in the car before I grab my clippers and shave that rat's nest off myself. Now, move it!"
Unimpressed by my display of power, my son Ethan does not move. He shifts his weight to one leg, and crosses his arms. He stares at me with the curiosity (pity?) one reserves for mental patients or the homeless - a look that simultaneously conveys concern and utter revulsion.
"Well, are we going or what?" I snap.
He takes a small moment to reflect, and then all at once sneers at me "I don't want to get my haircut. I'm a surfer and surfers have long hair. You just don't understand because you're gay."
At first I am stunned. I wonder if I've heard him correctly. When I ask him to repeat himself, he again states that surfers have long blond hair and I don't understand because not only am I gay, I have dark, Jew-boy hair. I'm horrified. I'm appalled. I don't know what upsets me more, his homophobia, his implied antisemitism or FAR WORSE, his appalling assertion that I know little to nothing about current hair styles!
The infuriated tranny in me suddenly rears her ugly, M.A.C. hued head. My right hand is now moving in a perfect circle, my index finger pointing due north, and in my best ghetto accent I snarl 'OH NO YOU DI'N'T!'
(To be continued)