My twelve-year-old son announced he wanted to get his hair cut...very short. Apparently his school buddies convinced him it's time to clean up his act. I was shocked, seeing as he loved his rock 'n roll longish hair. And so did I (she says while clinging on to the last vestiges of her former rock 'n roll years). I subtly suggested that his head would get cold; that winter isn't the best time to shear one's locks. He disagreed.
Today he and his rock 'n roll dad went for the big cut. I stayed home feigning busy-ness. I didn't want to squeak or weep or try to talk him out of his hair cut. Here's why: He's big now and has to make decisions for himself. And me? I have to learn to let go, to watch my son pull away, be independent, and feel confident to make his own choices.
He came home with this new 'do and loves it!
He looks so grown up (and beautiful) it makes me cry. Holy haircuts Batman, this parenting shit is hard.
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