Susan Senator

Give me a head with hair
Long beautiful hair
Shiny, gleaming, streaming
Flaxen, waxen.
–Hair, the most wonderful Broadway musical from the 60’s after Funny Girl

Yesterday I spent around four hours total (two before and two after dinner) putting dreadlocks into Max’s hair. We had found a great, informative site and researched how to segment, backcomb, twist, and wax the hair into bonafide dreads. This set of tasks was the result of a protracted conversation about this proposal, to further probe the outer limits of accepted hair style (he already has the fading remnants of a partial blue dye job).

Why did I let him, some may wonder. Because he wanted to, is the most simple response. Max has a very soft voice, both figuratively and metaphorically speaking; he does not put himself “out there,” unlike others in his family. Over the years, I have learned to pay close attention to his quiet expression of desires, feelings, and wants. Like his brother Nat, these moments come out when I least expect them, not as a result of a heart-to-heart or some well-thought-out plan; but rather, sitting side by side in the car while I concentrate on traffic. Or while I am in the middle of cooking two or three different dinners. Or blogging or coming up with a great kicker to an article. Nat’s and Max’s revealing moments are like the legendary green ray of light before sundown (referred to in an Eric Rohmer movie and Pirates 3); they happen in a flash, a heart-stopping gulp of time, and you are lucky to experience them at all.

It was not enough for Max to be 6′ 2″, drop-dead gorgeous, and have blue hair (now only slightly lavender pink in parts and bright blond in others). He wants to stand out even more. He wants this particular look, and who am I to say that it is not right? Not that it matters, but I think the short dreads look is kind of cute, whacky and innocent, somehow. A male happy-go-lucky Pippi Longstocking. Ned likened it to Sideshow Bob. Yes, but without the murderous tendencies, Thank God.

I would have drawn the line at tattoos, which are permanent and involve needles that may or may not be clean (I shudder at the thought of that, being a recovered OCD). Some piercings I would have also refused, but I am on thinner ground there. Each new idea he has about fashion, he brings to Ned and me and we talk about it for a while, over time. Some things we allow, some things, we don’t. One issue at a time.

While I worked, we talked and watched stuff on his Mac. We watched Steve Jobs introduce the iPhone at a conference. We talked technology (as users, not creators). We talked about Uru, hacking, calculators, funny television shows, and not-so-funny ones, like Lost and Heroes. He showed me some of Lost and I tried to get into it but that show freaks me out, I can’t help it. I just feel scared the whole time I’m watching, and who needs that?

I thought from time to time of the irony of never having had a little girl whose hair I could braid, etc., and here I was now, putting tiny little pigtails all over my very masculine son’s head. I thought about how I used to want to be a hair stylist, and how I would be good at it, I think. I liked holding onto his pink-blond locks, which were straight and soft and glossy like my favorite Barbie’s or Little Kiddle’s hair, and then teasing them into finger-sized dreads that then reminded me of toy Trolls’ (or Finks’) hair. The wax smelled good, like vanilla. Ned remarked as we were falling asleep, that I was like a vanilla candy bar.

I decided that what really mattered to me about this hair venture is that he keep the dreads clean and that he not actually be a “stoner,” though he may look like one to some. He will probably have to deal with people staring, or even treating him not so well. So this will be a learning experience for him, I suppose.

I did a furtive check of his email while he went upstairs to wash his hair with the special residue-free shampoo that prevents mildew(!) in the dreads. I felt horribly guilty but also intrigued. No signs of drug deals or being part of crime or porn rings. All he had was Uru stuff and facebook stuff. When he came downstairs I confessed to him, explaining it was my idea of a random drug check, and he forgave me, laughing softly.