My son is leaving for college in 10 days, and all that he and my husband do, is fight. Well not really fight – more like bicker.
My husband, who upon finishing dinner, had retired to the living room to read the paper. Looking up at my son he said, “Please go shave.”
My son, who was looking at his chin in the mirror replied, “I’ll shave when I get to school.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I don’t want you going off to school looking like that. Your Mother and I didn’t raise scruffy-looking kids.” Where upon my son retrieves his college football directory and opens to page 1. “There! See, a beard,” he began turning the pages . “And oooooh look … dreadlocks”. He settles on page 5. “Oooooooooh and this one has both a beard and dreadlocks. And this one - has no hair at all,” he says, pointing to a picture of an offensive lineman, who could have played Magwich in a local theater production of Great Expectations.
My husband looked out from the side of the newspaper. “I don’t care, they’re not my kids. Go shave”!
“Why not,” asked my husband, obviously trying a new tact.
“Because, the longer the whiskers get, the darker they get. Right, Mom?”
Oh Lord, I think, please stop me from laughing. “No,” I reply, while trying to hear what Lester Holt has to say about gay marriage in California.
My son looks at me for a moment and then says “Well, once they get long enough, I’m going to dye them darker.” He has put down the football directory and has shifted to lifting a pair of rather intimidating looking, 30 lb. hand weights.
At this point, my husband has abandoned any hope of reading the paper in peace and says “YOU ARE NOT DYING YOUR WHISKERS!”
No longer able to contain myself, I start to laugh. Both my husband and son turn and look at me with disgusted expressions. “Well, I’m getting a Mohawk when I get to school,” putting down the weights and flexing in front of the mirror.
My husband looks heavenward and says “That’s going to look pretty silly with your Vineyard Vines belts, and rep ties and pink polo shirts.”
“I’ll make it work”, he says, snapping his fingers in a “Z” formation.
My husband shakes his head – “Go clean your bathroom.”