My boys have long hair. Other kids mistake them for girls and adults call them “pretty”. Last month, the guy who cuts the scrubby grass of our house in Maine with his riding mower gave Griffin two dollars for helping him.
“Give it to your dad,” said this very burly, very manly, very short-haired Mainer, “and tell him to buy you a haircut.”
Our friends call Adrian “Mogli” after the kid from “The Jungle Book” who was raised by wolves. And with his gorgeous jungle tan, flat, Fred-Flintstone feet, and brown, sun-streaked hair, he does resemble a little Tarzan; when this wild child climbs out of Beaver Lake after doing a perfect front flip in, his wet hair reaches half way down his back.
I admit I am unnaturally attached to their long hair. It evokes the crushes of my childhood, like The Partridge Family’s David Cassidy, although Ethan says the boys look more like Carole Brady. But it seems to me that Griff could single-handedly bring back the 70s dreamboat look I loved and had pasted onto all my lunch boxes. A girl can dream, can’t she?
If only their daddy didn’t have such a difference of opinion. Ethan yearns for crew cuts they way I dream of pig and ponytails. But I refuse to give in, reminding him that back in the day (when he still had lots of hair) he sported long, gorgeous curls.
“Yeah, but I was nineteen, not six!” he says in his own defense.
The boys say they don’t want their hair cut anyway, and this makes me feel pretty smug, even though I know it’s probably not the best parental decision to leave personal grooming choices up to four and six-year olds. After all, it could backfire and I might have to send them off to college looking like The Barbarian Brothers…