Do I Look Like Your Personal Hairstylist?

I had the most fun last night. Sort of. My seventeen year old has, on occasion, convinced me to help him out with his "hair-do's" (or don'ts!). I cannot say I am always willing, but I do oblige him. Who can resist being trusted by a normally self-obsessed teen? Not I. If he wants me to do something with his hair, something that allows me to touch it and run my fingers through it, and even give asked for (gasp) advice, well, why wouldn't I?
The unwilling part comes in when I think about the one time I took it upon myself to cut my husbands and older three children's hair about seven years ago. It was awful. I swore I would never do it again and I never have except for Timothy, last night. We have, however, had other hair-raising experiences over the years.
At the end of eighth grade he allowed me to blow dry his hair for the banquet. It was a special occasion and he thought it would be okay for me to help him. It turned out okay, a little bigger-looking that his usual amount of hair - and he has a ton to begin with. The Woodward Eighth grade Banquet is the first dance our children are allowed to attend (and Eric and I always sign up to chaperone). During middle school he had been begging to get his hair dyed. We eventually decided that it would be something allowed for high school.
So, during the Summer before 9th grade we went to the hairdressers and he came out looking like a Back Street Boy/NSync cutie. It was strange to see him with such light hair, because he has very dark hair, almost pitch black and dark skin and eyes. (And yes, he is tall and handsome).
The next "do" came along just before 10th grade started, and here is where I was recruited. All he wanted, he explained to me, was for me to be present while he used some chemicals on his hair. Oh, and also to drive him to the mall to buy them. Oh, and then also to pay for some of it. Okay, I thought, NoProb. After all, he wasn't asking me if he could drive drunk down the highway at 80 miles an hour. This was the agreement Eric and I had made with ourselves and with our teenagers. We were going to focus on the important things and choose our battles. Hair and most clothing, we decided, are not worth arguing over. Our kids know: If we ever have to take them to task it will be over undone homework, inappropriate behavior, drinking, smoking or drugging. Our daughter will probably have some limitations on some items of clothing, as far as showing off too much skin and private parts, but as far as style and type goes she has free reign.
Anyway, off we went to the mall, me driving, he telling his girlfriend about the coming hair. Once home, not only did I "be present", but also ended up mixing bleach, applying bleach, mixing color, applying color and washing and scrubbing purple (!) dye off all bathroom surfaces. "Thanks mom," and a kiss on the cheek and I felt awesome everytime I looked at his grape-colored head.
For the last year or so, he has been threatening a Mohawk. He felt he should ask permission first, which was great and we gave it. Recently, this Summer, he became serious about doing it but for the last few weeks I've been asking him to hold off just until we get his senior pictures taken. He agreed. However, the photographer whose business I originally wanted to make use of did not return my email or phone call (she may be away for the Summer?) and then another photographer called me to ask if she may send us her brochure for seniors. We already have pictures taken by her and we love them, but after her request and our definite yes, we never did get the brochure. So, when asked again last night, I told him to go ahead and make an appointment. After all, it's just hair. It's going to grow back. And his pictures should show who he is now.
With a smile on his face, he disappeared into the basement and came back with a set of "whatchamakalits" - you know those electrical clipper, shaver hair cutting thingys with different levels of numbers? Yeah, those.
"Mom, could you just stand here and make sure I don't go crooked?" (After convincing me that he could not possibly wait to go to a real hairdresser today - it had to be done THEN).
I go into the bathroom and position myself to see what he needs me to watch.
"Actually, could you just shorten it all over first with this #8"? OOOOkay.
"Do you think maybe you could just get the middle part straight before you go to bed? That way, I'll know where to use the #1 or #2 without having a messed-up, crooked Mohawk. I've seen some crooked ones, mom, and believe me they look bad". Alrighty then.
"So, what about if "we" took some more off the middle, you know, just to get rid of the cows lick and some of those little curls"? Uh-huh.
"Okay mom, that looks really good, but here, let me change that to a #2 so that you can do the sides". Yeah.
"Make sure it's nice and straight". Do you want to do this?
"No, you got it". Hmm.
"Here, let me put a #1 in there, 'cause I think I want it to be shorter". Ouch.
"Can you just fix the middle and get it all straight". Sure. Why wouldn't I?
The end result was that he took a shower, I vacuumed up the bathroom and we both agreed that it looked really good. I got another kiss and a "Thanks mom," and he IM'd his friends to tell them while I went to bed at about 12:30pm.
So anyway, I don't cut hair. Not really. Never again. Really. (Oh Fine! If he looks at me with his smiling brown eyes and a certain amount of confidence in my abilities, and the promise of a cheek kiss after, well then I SUPPOSE so! Gee!).

Happy, Happy 7th Birthday to our "baby" Brogan - we are celebrating his day today! Yay!