spikes and streaks
spikes and streaks
My father took DJ for a haircut on Thursday. It's one of those bonding rituals that they have. Every three weeks, whether he needs it or not.
So Thursday they come home from the hair place and pull into the driveway and there's DJ in my dad's little BMW convertible, looking like the coolest kid on the block with that...spiked up haircut? And....what the hell? Is it pink? Maroon? Red?
DJ gets out of the car and has this huge grin on his face. As he comes closer I can see better. Yes, the hair is dyed (temporarily). It's been sculpted and gelled so the front part is sticking straight up. It's some hideous shade of red. The rest of his hair is close cropped and the top part is also dyed. DJ is giving me the thumbs up. I'm not letting on that I think it looks great or that I don't care what color his hair his because frankly, I'm stunned that my father had something to do with this.
When I was in seventh grade, I decided I wanted red hair. Or at least streaks. I followed my cousin's instructions and put a combination of peroxide, lemon juice and Sun-In through my black hair. And then I went outside and sat in the sun for a few hours. Voila! I had red hair. Well, maybe more like orange. Brownish-orange even. Whatever it was, it was no longer black.
We sat down for dinner that night and my father noticed my hair. How could he not? He was pissed. He went into this long, disturbing rant about the hair color that he gave me, and why wasn't that good enough for me, why did I have to change what was given to me at birth and I stared at him incredulously because I had no idea he was so proprietary over his DNA. He grounded me. For coloring my hair when I was 13 years old, I got grounded.
So here he is with my nine year old son, grinning like a little schoolboy and saying isn't it great? Doesn't he look cool? And then They have the blue color that Natalie wants, maybe I'll take her tomorrow. And then I told him when this color comes out he can get it dyed with blue and orange streaks for the Islanders. Amazing. I was always told that grandparents acted differently with their grandchildren than with their own kids, but I certainly wasn't expecting this.
So it's time for DJ's baseball game. Keep in mind that it's 90 degrees out. DJ gets up, puts his helmet on, and hits one to the outfield. He runs the bases, ends up on second. The next batter sends him home. He crosses the plate, takes off his helmet and there's red streaks of sweat running down his forehead. The dye is apparently more temporary than my dad thought. Everyone looks at him as the stripes of reddish brownish maroon streak his face. I'm waiting for the jokes. I'm waiting for him to hide. But no. All the kids want to know is where he got his hair dyed. And how cool it looks. DJ grins at me from his red streaked face.
I'll be going to the store today to get his blue and orange hair paint, as they call it. I told my dad I was thinking of getting a few purple streaks in my hair myself. He told me he would ground me if I did.