Thursday, October 26, 2006

It's Gotta Be the Hair.

This was Arlo's third time getting his hair cut at the salon. You might find that surprising, since he's only two, but this kid has got HAIR, man. It's lush, long, and grows like mold on the bread we left sitting on our countertop when we went on vacation.

This time, I asked for a haircut that would lend itself well to being styled in a pompadour, as I am going to try to dress Arlo up for Halloween as something in the realm of Elvis-to-fifties greaser/biker-to John Travolta as Danny Zucco. You know, the sensitive tough guy type. The kind who can get shot from only the waist up on national T.V., due to his wildly gyrating lower regions, but also turn around and sing "Crying in the Chapel" to the slobbering delight of schoolgirls and housewives all the world 'round.

Amy did a fantastic super awesome job on the haircut, and Arlo sat nicely in the chair, grasping his steamed milk ("coffee") from the coffee shop next door with both hands and looking very solemn.

Amy asked if I was going to shampoo his hair that night, and I said "of course!" because I definitely wanted to have Arlo's hair styled, with Product. It was awesome. He was so cute, so tough, such a good boy.

But then...

I think something happened when he saw his reflection in the mirror. He looked pretty impressed with his new bad-boy image, and though he was pretty compliant all the way home--even when we stopped at K-Mart to pick up some diapers--I'm pretty sure that he was plotting my downfall the entire time.

As soon as we walked in the door at home, He fell apart.

I can't even tell you what the trigger was. The next hour was a series of fits--screaming, crying, kicking, running away, closing himself in his own closet. We tried to put him in a time-out in his crib, but he climbed out by himself. For the first time. That actually calmed him down for a few minutes, because he was so pleased with himself. He came walking out into the hallway, where Ted and I were slumped against the wall, and said "I got down."

The evening culminated in Arlo actually attempting to climb back INto his crib, and asking me if he could "go night-night now?"

I let him go to bed, even though his hair was a helmet of Aveda Anti-humectant Pomade and Firmata hairspray. Even though his dinner consisted of a sugar cookie and some sweet steamed milk from the coffee shop. Even though he would not allow us to put pants on him. (He takes off his pants when he gets mad sometimes.)

I lifted him from his perch, clinging to the rails of his crib from the outside, and laid him down in his bed.

"Do you want your blanket on?"

"No."

"Do you want a kiss?"

"No."

"Do you want your music on?"

"No."

"Okay, then. Night night, honey."

"Mommy, go away."

Ladies and Gentlemen, I died a slow, painful death when he said that last night. I am still dying today, I think. My little boy's all grown up and he rocks a pompadour Like No Other.

1 comment:

Cindy M said...

Great story!!!! Actually, I suppose it's great reality.