In our house we call it Peacock Hair. Normally you think of a peacock fanning out its long magnificent plumes of dreamy shades of greens and blues. But not in this case. Not in my house. Peacock Hair is the 2020 version of the hair of that Little Rascal, Alfalfa. Since my children don’t get that pop culture reference and we do frequent the local zoo, this is our label of choice for a small patch of standing-up-at-attention hair.
Last Sunday morning a thought washed over me. If my salon discontinued its services (you can’t exactly cut hair from the required six feet away from your client), then so would the haircutting establishment of my nine year old son.
“Can you take Jacob to get his haircut this morning before his regular place closes too?” I asked my husband. He agreed it was a good idea to sneak in one last one for himself, too. It was a good thought but time was already up. My husband got on the phone and called around only to find their window had closed, as well as the door – closed and locked up tight.
My immediate first comment to my husband was, “Uh oh. Months of ammunition.” Months of material for my two daughters’ Comedy-Central-like roast of their poor little brother. Months of a built-in retort to any argument with little brother, “Yeah, but look at your Peacock Hair”.
Think quick, Mommy. Think quicker than my husband who walked over miming scissors and telling me about his one quick snip solution (which my son quickly agreed, by the way. To which I reminded all within earshot that only professionals cut our hair. Some things in life should be left in a trained professional’s hands. Like scissors.
An example of needing a band-aid solution to a quarantine problem. A quick temporary fix to maintain shalom bayit, or peace in our home. Quick. Think. A combination of putting on my teacher and mommy hats will find that band-aid.
Hair gel! “Jacob, remember the product we bought a while ago at the haircut place we buried away in the cupboard and never used? Time to unbury it. And if you don’t quickly heed my advice, I won’t protect you from your sisters.”
Another quarantine problem solved thanks to my quick thinking (before any amateur scissoring came to fruition), a quick mental inventory of what we had laying around (a bathroom shelf full of the latest-at-the-time hair products a barber convinced me are the solution to a regular bout of “Peacock Hair”) and a bit of sympathy for my son and his fighting chance with his siblings.
A Shalom Bayit save by Mommy.
This blog post is by Jen Saber. Jen, who lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, is Shutaf’s Educational Development Consultant.