Hair does not make the man. I know this. But when your kid comes home looking like he is starring in the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie, you want to get all up in his business.
But you can’t.
Jake is 20, and can have whatever kind of hair he wants. He could have dreadlocks, dye it purple, go Jheri curl, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Nor should I. But, between you and me, well, and him, well, and everybody else who saw him and asked me why I was not making him cut his hair, I really hated the way he looked.
But this is the part when I don’t really get a say. This is the age when I can no longer influence his choices in hair, or clothes. He is young enough to ask me to make him breakfast, but old enough to tell me where to get off when I tell him he looks like a caveman married to that really bad mug shot of Nick Nolte.
This is the second summer after college. This is the summer of “I’m going to do what I want.” This is the summer we aren’t taking our traditional vacation, which we have taken for 29 years, because both our kids have plans, and Jake is working in L.A.
Nonetheless, someone got a haircut yesterday. Just sayin’.