Technically I should have written this yesterday, but I'm claiming busy-mom-syndrome and writing this at 1:30 the morning after, so it still counts, right? Right!
When I woke up I recalled the excitement of waking up on this day 13 years ago. I just knew that in a few hours I would hold my son. Things didn't work out quite the way we planned, but the day ended and I had briefly held my son.
This morning I knew it was only minutes before I could hug him and I was sure that it too would be brief. I was a bit more apprehensive to wake him up this year, after all I was waking a teenager. Still, I thought that the lure of presents and cake would ensure a good mood long enough for me to get my hug. I was right.
I spent most of the day reflecting on the last 13 years of my son's life. There have been moments of unspeakable joy, heart-wrenching pain, white-hot anger, and sheer frustration. But, underneath every one of those moments was an endless supply of love. I never knew I could love so deeply and so unconditionally. I admit it, I am in love with my son. Not in an icky or, I hope, over-bearing way, but in a manner that allows me to see flaws and diamonds and love them both equally and deeply.
JM learned early on that my love was the "no matter what" kind, which for him is a very good thing. I could swear that he lies awake and thinks of ways to test the theory. Fortunately he also learned that I can separate him from his behavior and when I am most angry or frustrated it's at the behaviors not the person.
Today my son turned 13. In some cultures he would be considered a man. In the culture of my heart he's still my baby boy. The one I am most grateful for, and to; the child I am blessed to have call me Mom. It's been amazing to watch him for the past 13 years, I'm sure the future will be just as amazing. And while I suppose I'm not ready for him to move on and move forward, I'm grateful to be included on the journey.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
A painful cut
My birthday was last week. I look forward to my birthday every year. It's a big deal to me, always has been. This year my cake had 45 candles.
As a treat for my birthday I wanted a haircut. I hadn't had a real haircut in about 9 months, since I was last in CA. I found a salon and made an appointment for the afternoon before my birthday. I arrived at the salon a few minutes early with slightly longer than shoulder length, flat, fine hair. I wanted an inverted cut, shorter in the back, longer in front, with the longest portion being 2 - 3 inches past chin length. We had a good consultation, and the stylist shampooed, conditioned and began cutting my hair. It seemed like she knew what she was doing and our conversation was pleasant if inane.
And then the horrors began. One side was longer than the other. Okay, no reason to panic, it happens. A few snips and, wait...one side is longer than the other. "Just a smidge'" she says. So a few more snips and, one side is longer than the other...by an inch. Just another smidge. I sneak a glance at my watch and realize that I've been in the chair for 45 minutes and the cut still isn't complete. Oh wait, we're blowing out the hair now. Good, almost done. No reason to panic.
Until she says, "I can't wait to see this dry so I can see what pieces I missed." Hello? Seriously? In all the decades I've had my hair cut no one has ever had to dry it to see what they missed! And guess what we found? My hair was uneven! I point it out twice, and realize that my hair is now 4 inches shorter than what I wanted and is no longer past chin length. The salon owner comes over, says she won't charge me, and makes a few snips to even it out. As my chair is turned toward the mirror and the scissors are picked up again, I look in horror at my reflection. I take off the cape, announce my departure and begin to sob uncontrollably. I look like the dutch boy! My hair is shorter than chin length and makes a nice square frame.
I manage to get in my car and call the only person that I can think will understand...my mom. She felt bad, told me not to worry, that I could work with it, and that it would grow back. Surely she would be more sympathetic if she could actually understand what I was saying. "Waaaaa, mmaaaaa haare, I can't....boy!" is what she heard. In actuality, what I said was "The dutch boy, I look like the dutch boy...the day before my 45th birthday and I look like the freaking dutch boy! This is not okay. I refuse to wake up on my birthday and look like this!" I still don't understand what got lost in the translation.
Have you ever tried to drive while sobbing uncontrollably? It isn't easy and it's hard to see things. I drove through 4 strip malls looking for another salon, passed one twice because I was afraid to go in. Apparently there were only two salons nearby; the butcher shop I had just left and the place I was afraid of. Drying my eyes I walked in to Salon #2. I was not reassured by what I found; a small staff and indifferent receptionist. But I pressed on and asked if someone could re-cut my hair. I waited patiently until I heard a chorus of "sorry no time" and one lone "I could fit her in on Saturday."
I admit it, I lost it. I broke down in tears, again, looked at the closest stylist and said, "Tomorrow is my 45th birthday and I can't look like this!" And proceeded to bawl loudly. His customer took pity on me and told him to fix my cut, while trying to reassure me that he was the one person I wanted to cut my hair. I managed to sniffle an acknowledgement that the only way to salvage the cut was to go shorter and he got to work. I heard the razor slicing through my hair and began to breathe. It was a familiar sound and it reassured me that he knew what he was doing. Then the frantic cutting began, it sounded like Edward Scissorhands was behind me, and when I said it out loud he laughed and I offered a watery smile. A few brush strokes, a blow dryer and a flat iron and voila, I was done. I felt better, it looked cuter than when I walked in, and I could live with it. Fortunately, the first person I saw after getting my second haircut told me how great it looked.
I learned something that day; never, ever will I get a haircut the day before my birthday, unless I'm sitting in Bev's chair. Oh, and one other thing I learned? Tears really can work for you!
As a treat for my birthday I wanted a haircut. I hadn't had a real haircut in about 9 months, since I was last in CA. I found a salon and made an appointment for the afternoon before my birthday. I arrived at the salon a few minutes early with slightly longer than shoulder length, flat, fine hair. I wanted an inverted cut, shorter in the back, longer in front, with the longest portion being 2 - 3 inches past chin length. We had a good consultation, and the stylist shampooed, conditioned and began cutting my hair. It seemed like she knew what she was doing and our conversation was pleasant if inane.
And then the horrors began. One side was longer than the other. Okay, no reason to panic, it happens. A few snips and, wait...one side is longer than the other. "Just a smidge'" she says. So a few more snips and, one side is longer than the other...by an inch. Just another smidge. I sneak a glance at my watch and realize that I've been in the chair for 45 minutes and the cut still isn't complete. Oh wait, we're blowing out the hair now. Good, almost done. No reason to panic.
Until she says, "I can't wait to see this dry so I can see what pieces I missed." Hello? Seriously? In all the decades I've had my hair cut no one has ever had to dry it to see what they missed! And guess what we found? My hair was uneven! I point it out twice, and realize that my hair is now 4 inches shorter than what I wanted and is no longer past chin length. The salon owner comes over, says she won't charge me, and makes a few snips to even it out. As my chair is turned toward the mirror and the scissors are picked up again, I look in horror at my reflection. I take off the cape, announce my departure and begin to sob uncontrollably. I look like the dutch boy! My hair is shorter than chin length and makes a nice square frame.
I manage to get in my car and call the only person that I can think will understand...my mom. She felt bad, told me not to worry, that I could work with it, and that it would grow back. Surely she would be more sympathetic if she could actually understand what I was saying. "Waaaaa, mmaaaaa haare, I can't....boy!" is what she heard. In actuality, what I said was "The dutch boy, I look like the dutch boy...the day before my 45th birthday and I look like the freaking dutch boy! This is not okay. I refuse to wake up on my birthday and look like this!" I still don't understand what got lost in the translation.
Have you ever tried to drive while sobbing uncontrollably? It isn't easy and it's hard to see things. I drove through 4 strip malls looking for another salon, passed one twice because I was afraid to go in. Apparently there were only two salons nearby; the butcher shop I had just left and the place I was afraid of. Drying my eyes I walked in to Salon #2. I was not reassured by what I found; a small staff and indifferent receptionist. But I pressed on and asked if someone could re-cut my hair. I waited patiently until I heard a chorus of "sorry no time" and one lone "I could fit her in on Saturday."
I admit it, I lost it. I broke down in tears, again, looked at the closest stylist and said, "Tomorrow is my 45th birthday and I can't look like this!" And proceeded to bawl loudly. His customer took pity on me and told him to fix my cut, while trying to reassure me that he was the one person I wanted to cut my hair. I managed to sniffle an acknowledgement that the only way to salvage the cut was to go shorter and he got to work. I heard the razor slicing through my hair and began to breathe. It was a familiar sound and it reassured me that he knew what he was doing. Then the frantic cutting began, it sounded like Edward Scissorhands was behind me, and when I said it out loud he laughed and I offered a watery smile. A few brush strokes, a blow dryer and a flat iron and voila, I was done. I felt better, it looked cuter than when I walked in, and I could live with it. Fortunately, the first person I saw after getting my second haircut told me how great it looked.
I learned something that day; never, ever will I get a haircut the day before my birthday, unless I'm sitting in Bev's chair. Oh, and one other thing I learned? Tears really can work for you!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)