I finally got my hair cut after months of trying to grow it out and not losing it all in the process. There was a minor hiccup at the salon. The woman who normally does my hair is no longer with the salon so I settled for a fellow who'd styled my unruly tresses for the company gala last month.
Problem is, my knowledge of spoken Kannada - the language spoken in
DH liked it too. (I did not ask for an opinion. I've been married for almost ten years so I know better than to ASK for an opinion!) And then he asked the offspring: "Isn't Mamma's new haircut nice?"
The offspring lolled on the couch for a bit, observing silently. "Your hair looks very nice," he finally said, but the sentence was loaded. There was more to come. "But you don't look like Mamma."
Huh? Wait a minute, what does that mean? DH shrugged. I raised an eyebrow and the little rascal grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You hair is nice. But you look very fashionable." That's the exact word he used: 'fashionable.' My son knows words like 'fashionable.' He's six and he knows words like fashionable. Gulp.
"So is that good or bad?" I asked him.
"It's good for you. You'll look nice in the office. But you don't look like my Mamma." Direct, point-blank, no beating about the bush. A brave man, don't you think? Even if it was his mother and not his girlfriend he was talking to.
"Do you want me to change it?"I volunteered
"No. You look nice, Mamma. But not like my Mamma," he repeated.
Ah, I see. I was looking non-Mommy-ish. Not bad, I thought. I haven't looked like that since much before he was born. But then, mommy-guilt surfaced. And how. I was ready to find hairpins, hide the fashion and stick to the severe, 'able' look. Before the guilt could overwhelm me, the little tyke scooted over and gave me a hug. "I still love you," he announced.
Thanks, Munchkin. I needed that. :-)