A few weeks ago we had our family portrait taken. A friend of mine said, “Well, it’s got to be easier than when they were little. You won’t have to chase a three year old around.”
Maybe not. It was, however, riddled with other issues. First, all three boys needed haircuts. The actual evolution of obtaining haircuts over the years is a story unto itself, and I will leave that for another post. But for the purposes of this event, let me just say that only two were actually asking for a haircut.
Roo and Buzzard hate having long hair. It gets curly and unruly, and they would just as soon have it cut off military style if I would approve. While we did partake in buzz haircuts during their younger years, we eventually switched to just a nice all purpose short cut.
Bugs, however, at the ripe old age of 15, has decided he doesn’t really need a haircut–EVER! He has also decided that he doesn’t need to comb it when he gets out of the shower. This is one of those things that I knew was coming, and knew I would have a hard time with. I have tried over the years to embrace longer hair on boys. I can’t. This has caused a little distress between Bugs and myself.
“Haircut today at noon,” I announced yesterday.
“What?” Exclaims Bugs. “NOOOOOO!”
“Yes! You can’t have that mop in our family picture!” I say, extremely irritated that he can’t just grant me this one courtesy without argument.
“I’m not cutting my hair!” He responds defiantly.
My husband steps in to negotiate. “How about a shower and shampoo,” he says, not quite a question, but more of an order.
I sigh. “Fine, but it gets combed.”
He agrees, but later conveniently says he didn’t agree to it being combed. “I don’t want to look like a dork to everyone that sees it.” My husband gets the blowdryer, and after ten minutes or so ends with something we can all grudgingly agree on.
Next comes the clothes. Oops! didn’t realize they had pretty much outgrown most of their stuff. (Do I sound unorganized?). We ferreted around until everyone had something on they (and I) could live with, but not without a whole lot of chaos.
We drive to the designated place. The three year old may want to run off, but the 14 year old wants to climb every tree he sees. And they all want to push, slug and knock each other over when standing close. Then there is the laughing, snickering, and crude comments that make it virtually impossible to force your face into a photogenic smile. Can a red handprint be airbrushed off a photo? I’m kidding. But after looking at the photos this morning, I did ask if my wrinkles could be removed.
“Not without looking like the worst case of botox treatment you’ve ever seen,” was the reply.
Damn. When did I get that old, and what was I doing when it happened? Maybe it’s too much wine.