This morning, left to his own choices, Ben decided to put red and green highlights into his hair, a process that was only slightly less painful than getting a colonoscopy (why YES, I have had the pleasure, thankyouverymuch!). To his credit, however, he is a mere 6 years old with the correlating attention span of a housefly, and the whole process did take about 2 hours. I myself got antsy and bored after about 20 minutes, so I can’t say that I blame him in any way.
I’ll post pictures just as soon as I have a tutorial from The Daver (who is sadly back at work after a couple of blissful days off), but I am now perplexed. Am I officially the worst mother on the planet, destined to take my 10 year old to get his tongue pierced and sign for a tattoo (not of a pot leaf, however. Or flames. Even I have my boundries) at age 16?
I mean, since I’ve gotten my own hairs did, I’ve been barraged by strangers asking if Ben was my own child, which leads me to believe that a) I look far younger than my 27 years or b) I don’t appear fit enough (mentally) to have a child of my own. Sweet, I suppose, but also somewhat baffling.
Either way, babysitter or mother, what’s done is done (although it can be easily rectified by a pair of clippers) for now and he seems to dig it. But I’m not sure I could handle doing it again with him without trying to commit suicide by highlighting comb or some such implement OR some medicinal drugging (me, not him).