Tuesday, November 17, 2009


"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)


  1. Oh darling...well, let me just say this...I lost my battle with my 12 year old 4 years ago over the state of his hair. It grew into a bird's nest looking afro..well, you saw pics...so you know. He even went as far as crying. Leading me to abandon the hair salon in fury and abandoning my concern for his look. Fucked up thing was everyone loved the freaking mess..because it was different, daring, unruly, an upright middle finger to the conformity of life. And yeah it went against me, but it's not me, it's him...and he wanted to be this person, this "fuck you world, I'm me, not what you want me to be" 9,10, and 11 year old. Eventually, he grew tired of it and asked to have it cut...it's due for another visit to the stylist, one I have ignored and he continually harasses me over. In other words darling...you are absolutely correct in that he could never know more than you about such things...some battles just aren't meant to be fought. So go drink another martini and chill one for me in the process...dude.

  2. Look kids, pick your battles. What do you care if his hair looks like a rat's nest? As long as he takes care of it, he has to suffer the snickers and (hopefully) outright torture from his peers. There's nothing better than another 7yo, 10yo, 13yo to tell your kid exactly what you've been telling him for years. It's just that they don't listen to us. They listen to ... them (she says with disdain in her throat).

    And oh ... I'm laughing at the irony. A gay guy doesn't know ... hair??!!?? Did I hear that right?

    Hey at least your kid acknowledges that you're gay. Mine is only recently calling Ethelda his stepmom. Only took him ... ohhhh ... five years! Before that, she was "just Thel."

    Dude, you are one helluva writer. I should be ashamed.