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Copyright © 2010 Andrea Langworthy
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So much has been written about umpire Jim Joyce’s blown call at first base that I should probably not mention it. If you’re a baseball fan, you know Joyce apologized to a Detroit pitcher for costing him a perfect game. If you’re not into sports, you may not care that Joyce feels awful. Or that Armando Galarraga accepted Joyce’s admission of guilt and has moved on. I will, too, because as a parent, I’ve made my share of bad calls. One in particular stands out.
My son was a high school junior who needed a haircut for a fancy party my father was hosting the next night. Relatives would be there. As would Dad’s business associates, old neighbors, friends from his school days. So, the morning before, as my youngest was about to leave for school, we talked about the haircut. “I want to get it like Jim McMahon’s,” he said. I wasn’t a football fan but had seen pictures of the Bear’s quarterback. His short hair looked neat. So, I was surprised when my husband stuck his head into the room and said, “Over my dead body.” He’d used the same expression when our child wanted his ear pierced but why object to a crew cut? Our son had worn his hair in that style before. So had his dad when he was young. No matter; my husband held his ground; repeating the dead body statement over and over until he left for work. I handed my son 10 dollars and said I didn’t care if he got the McMahon cut. His dad wouldn’t either once he saw how good it looked.
When I returned from work, I got a head start on readying the family’s outfits for Friday’s shindig. I was in the bedroom ironing when my son walked in wearing his baseball cap backwards, the brim grazing his neck. “Let’s see the hair,” I said. The front looked just like I’d pictured. Feeling smug and justified, I told him to turn around. Whoa! The back, from the top of his head to his collar, was long and shaggy like a Mohawk “You have to get the back fixed to match the front,” I screamed, glancing at the clock. The barbershop would be closed by the time he got there so I called to see if they’d stay around for an emergency. No luck. After a few more attempts, I found a beauty shop that was open late and told him to get there as fast as he could before his dad got home. I handed him money and shooed him out to the car.
Now, like instant replay, that moment plays over and over in my mind. I can see the look of disappointment on my child’s face and the shallow one on mine as I worried about what the relatives and my father and his friends would think about that crazy head of hair. My son is over 40 now. The father of four, he learned his lesson after that haircut incident. Last year, when I made a comment about kids and texting, he told me patiently, “You’ve got to pick your battles, Mom.” Now he tells me.