HAIR BRAINED PT. 3

(Continued from HAIR BRAINED Pt. 2)

As my son Ethan fled in terror to the safety of his room, I sat in the kitchen smiling dementedly while preparing a vodka and tonic. I knew the haircut battle was already underway, and figured that a little libation couldn't hurt. As the ice cubes clinked merrily in my glass, and as I ascended the main staircase of our house, I couldn't help but make a comparison between my current situation, and the infamous scene from THE SHINING where Jack Nicholson chases his terrified son through the snowy hedge maze with an axe. In hindsight, I think Jack's character was tragically misunderstood.

Eons ago, before I made the 'blessed' decision to have children, I would sometimes visit TARGET to pick up some stylish, wildly unnecessary Isaac Mizrahi throw pillows or sheet sets and I would see some frazzled mother freaking out and shouting at her brood of incorrigible kids. I would naively think to myself, "Goodness, why is that ghastly, dangerously unbalanced woman yelling at those darling, precious little angels?!" Like my days of visiting TARGET just for the 'fun of it,' my attitudes towards screaming mommies have certainly changed. Now, when I see a mommy losing her cookies in TARGET I think to myself "Goodness, what have those awful, disrespectful little brats done to that poor, unfortunate woman?!" As I pass her, our red rimmed, swollen, sleep deprived eyes meet and the 'I-know-EXACTLY-what-you're-going-though' look is exchanged between us. As she fights back tears, she smiles at me gratefully. We go back to the management of our dangerous, unruly children, and steal another look at each other. A shared smile crosses both of our faces as we realize that we are comrades in arms and that while we may lose the battle of TARGET, we will eventually (hopefully) win the war.

Like crazy Jack Nicholson, I stand outside my son's locked, barricaded door knocking politely.

"Ethan darling, open the door." I ask sweetly.

No response.

"Ethan, daddy just wants to talk to you...now open the door!"

No response.

"Ethan, open the door now!"

No response.

"ETHAN, IF YOU DON'T OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW, I'M GOING TO KICK IT IN AND SCALP YOU MYSELF!" I scream.

"GO AWAY JEW-BOY!" my son yells back.

Jew-boy! Jew-boy? Now, I know I should have been enraged, or at least taken some umbrage at the 'Jew-boy' remark, but by now the vodka had gotten the better of me and I became uncharacteristically reflective. I realized that in my zeal to create my eugenically perfect, blond haired, blue eyed, test tube baby son, I hadn't counted on my 'creation' scornfully looking down his aquiline, will-never-need-rhinoplasty nose at my humble (criminally insane) Jewish, Ashkenazi roots. That's fine I thought, if Adolph Eichmann in there was gonna play the Jew card, I was prepared to go Simon Wiesenthal on his ass.

(To Be Continued)