Preenager in The House

It was inevitable really.   Time stands still for no man and all of that.  But I thought my place in front of the mirror was safe for another while.   Just for the record, I don’t spend a lot of time there, but a person needs to be able to see her reflection when she is drawing on eyebrows and pointing things at her eyeballs in the name of make-up.

But I never in a million years would have expected my place to have been nicked by a ten-year-old boy wanting to style his hair into a Mohawk.

There is a preenager in the house and it happened literally overnight.

Or maybe not. 

A few weeks back there was a family gathering for a milestone birthday.   The good clobber was dragged out.   The First Holy Communicant was delighted to be able to showcase his Paul Costello duds and a shirt was dug out of storage for Lovely Liam.  

The preenager stopped me in my tracks by asking, “when are you going to buy me fancy clothes?”

Up until now this boy has lived in tracksuit pants and his beloved rugby jersey.   I have snuck up on him and body slammed him to the ground to get him to change his socks and underwear.    Once I saw him lick his hands clean when I told him they were dirty. 

So you can understand my amazement at the request for “fancy clothes.”

Last week he developed a very sudden interest in music and my ears are bleeding thanks to Coldplay ever since.

Coldplay I ask you.

There is hope on the horizon, however.   He was making enquiries about The Cure over the weekend.   All is not lost.

Then he pointed to his thick mop of hair.  The one he refused to have cut since Halloween.  

“I want it gone.”  He said.   “Chopped off.”

As you wish.

The barber went out the back and brought in the shears.   The three brothers hooted and laughed as the lumps of hair fell on the floor. 

After the carnage, the barber advised me to “lash on the conditioner.   Leave it for at least an hour and then wash out.  That head hasn’t seen light in months by the looks of it.   It’s going to be a work in progress.”

Tell me about it.

Last evening, I was frogmarched into the bathroom where he proceeded to style his hair in front of the mirror.

“Take a picture.  Take a picture of what it looks like so I can show the barber and he can make it look like this all the time.”

I explained it wasn’t the cut that was at fault; product was needed in order to keep the style he wanted.

I am a stupid woman.

There was a tin of hair stuff knocking about since Halloween and I found it for him.

I am a stupid woman.

The others got wind of the activity in the bathroom and before I knew it they lined up “for a go” of the comb and some “sticky stuff” for their own hairs.

Delighted with himself his parting words before he went to bed were, “will you wake me up early in the morning so I can fix my hair before school?”

And so it begins.