When Puberty Meets Menopause: The Hair Edition.
(published first in "My Life as a Parent" column, PARENTWISE AUSTIN)

Last week I chatted with our 17-year old son whom we'll call Deathmetal and his friend C-Squirrel in the kitchen after school. Deathmetal and C-Squirrel play electric guitar for a screamo band named for French pirates, and the band practices regularly in our basement. Ever had the pleasure of hearing emo screamo in person? Allow this midlife mama to enlighten.

Imagine: an absence of melody, volume which induces ears and spleens to bleed, repetitive vomitting sounds, machine gun fire percussion, and incoherent vocals beckoning brain hemorrhages. This genre definitely does not tingle my jingles, but then again, it wouldn’t be cool if it did. All of us here at Emo Central have grown accustomed to quaking upstairs during practices. (Almost all of us…several neighbors have relocated).

We’re happy these hormonal teens can express themselves and release pent-up energy via music. After all, I’m hormonal too and truly ‘get’ emo. My kids are happy I have prescriptions to balance the emo elements of peri-menopause—essentially a second adolescence.

But back to C-Squirrel. I guess my chemically-induced stable mood had to be wrecked eventually…

TRES IMPORTANT BACKGROUND INFO: my teen son is not a licensed cosmetologist.

DEATHMETAL: I’m gonna give C-SQUIRREL a haircut.
ME: Okay. (Like I said, I was feeling a groovy groovy pharmaceutical calm.)

30 minutes later.

C-SQUIRREL: How do I look?
ME (overenthusiastic*): GREAT!

***genuine relief C-Squirrel required no First Aid.

Oddly, C-Squirrel needs to now hop in the shower. Hmmmmm. So his hair was dirty and dry for the cut? I retreat to the kitchen to grill pork chops for dinner. Things turn ugly when I discover two things:

(A.) Blunt tiny school scissors on the counter used by Death to cut off his friend’s mop
and
(B.) an evilicious three foot diameter nest of dark hair in a heap upon the kitchen floor.

Have I mentioned my OCD?

MY INNER-BITCHY VON BITCHY: Eff NOOOOOOO! They did not just cut hair near my kitchen! This is not happening! Why dearlord did I get the idiot son?

Deep cleansing breath. It’s too late. We did our best. College is soooo right around the corner. Yes. We. Can. Make the nest. Disappear.

I proceed to sweep.

Something through the French doors catches my eye—is it more hair on the screen porch floor? Utterly terrified it becomes clear every friggin inch of the porch and the wraparound deck is littered with dirty hair! No breeze in sight.

It’s as if the porch has been raped.

Again with the INNER-BITCHY VON BITCHY: Sweet mother, hair is evvvvverywhere! How is this possible? There is no undoing this crappiest of messes! Both parties must die! They know I can’t stomach crapstorms! I have problems. I have problems! Why do they hate me? What would Jackie O do? Who am I kidding? John-John would never make crapshackle of Jackie’s veranda. That kid loved his mama. Hair! All that hair! Those slackers should be out here, BUT THEY’D NEVER GET IT CLEAN.

The next 75 nauseating minutes were spent trembling, quietly cursing, and sweeping dirty hair. When I regained a modicum of maternal composure I demanded the boys sweep for another half hour. The following day I spoke calmly with Death on the phone.

ME: You cannot give another haircut in our home again.
DEATH: It was a HAIRCUT, mom. No big deal. I didn’t know you’d be THAT bothered.
ME: You used school scissors and plastered our porch and deck with hair. I have problems. Didn’t I tell you about my problems?
DEATH: Yeah. But I didn’t think they were that bad.
ME: They are.

They are.


illustration: Aaron Romo - thank you!

Michele has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.