My boy has hair. Okay, not a big deal to the masses, but to me a marvel. He goes through life and hair pops out the top of his scalp, lies down thick and shaggy--it's a miracle.
Miracle too strong a word? No sir. I have hair. Chia pet hair. Thin and whispy. Hundreds of fourth inch spindles that stick straight up. My head is a desert, a barren landscape where there is no water. No growth. My boy's head is tropical--lush, thick, overgrown. Amazing.
So this boy, this child of mine today paid me the ultimate compliment:
"Dad, I want my head shaved, like you."
He would trade his luxury shag for a chance to cop his Dad's dome. Now there might be another reason. Zidane also is bald to the bone (for the soccer uninitiated, he's quite the dude), but that's not what my son said. He said "like you."
So we considered this request, born of youth and folly, and may well give his hair the heave-ho. It'll be back soon enough. But we have hit a snag, born of our youth and folly.
Seems that when kids are cribbed, you're supposed to turn'em, like rotisserie chickens. Keeps the head from flattening. Well, we missed that part of parenting 101. So beneath that thick mop is a head with a back flat as a pancake. Shave him, and from the side he'll resemble a capital D.
I told my son about our SNAFU. He doesn't care and wants to go ahead with the plan. Tomorrow is to be the day. My O will turn into a D.
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