You Must Go WITH the Cowlick

On: This morning’s hair meltdown.

I thought having boys would mean less hair issues. I can’t speak to the other side, since we don’t have girls, but I will say there are far more hair “situations” than I could ever have imagined.

And of course none of them have to do with hair.

So, this morning as I am projecting rather loudly that we need to leave for school NOW, or we are going to be late for their early morning class with Finn’s wonderful teacher. And being late is disrespectful.

I deliver my usual sped-up lecture on why being on time matters.

As I blab on, Leo passes by me and gets into the car. Finn is still upstairs, muttering to himself and yelling at me that he’s trying but the gel will NOT hold his hair down.

I try to support, encourage, cajole and then pressure him into hurrying up.

His frustration escalates until he is yell-crying that it’s not working.

The word not vibrates like an alarm clock with no visible off button.

I express my understanding about the disobedient hairs, but reiterate, with quite a bit of urgency that they absolutely need to leave, now! (negating any possibility that I really understand).

“Your hair looks great. Pleeease, Finn, we need to leave.”

Joe looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, which, I have.

Quietly, just to me, he says, “Kels, he is genuinely upset. He’s not okay. I will come back to get him.”

He is right. I know.

I get overly caught up in doing the right thing for other people, for our schedule, in the name of order. The truth is, beneath the routine-obsessed insanity, I am terrified of what will happen if we don’t follow through.

So, what will happen?

Well, in reality, nothing. We will be a little late.

But growing up, consequences loomed large. Disappointment lay around every unfinished task. And there was screaming every morning that my dad couldn’t miss his train and he got dropped on our way to school.

My chest and throat still vibrate with this anxiety when I, or anyone in our family, will be late. It crosses over the courteous desire to be respectful.

It instills full-scale panic.

Trembles inside me like an underground volcanic current. I’m not aware of the rumbling until the pressure inside me erupts.

Luckily, Joe is a volcano whisperer. I listened to him. Skipped the gym. Offered to drive Finn. And Finn and I settled on the chaise for as long as it would take.

I snapped back into who I am, like out of a bad trance. I said, “Let’s take a look and see what’s going on back there.” I inspected the problem area where the hair kept standing up despite ALL the water and ALL the gel and ALL his repeated efforts.

“We can solve this,” I said.

“You have a cowlick. And the thing with cowlicks is, you have to work with them, not against them. (irony noted) They won’t change but we can change how we work with them.

If you come in the direction of the swirl, they sit flat. No problems.”

I showed him this in the mirror with a handheld compact after brushing his hair into alignment.

He smiled. And then cried.

“People are going to make fun of me,” he said. “About my hair, and how long I spent doing it and why I care so much and they are going to look at me funny.”

This is why we stayed home. I forget the path into meaningful conversation begins with bad hair or the wrong sneakers or yelling about being late.

I gave him some pretty good advice I think.

Advice I could use just as much.

Finn thinks differently. He sees the world associatively. He sees metaphor everywhere. He has trouble with linear tasks. His imagination is always firing so he has trouble concentrating on what people are saying.

He is magical, beautiful and different, but he gets overwhelmed easily.

I explained that along with this incredible creative vision and imaginative view of the world comes a feeling of being different. But we are all different. Everyone.

Different doesn’t mean separate.

I let him absorb this into whatever cells could hold it. I didn’t obsess over cognitive digestion. I could feel him feeling it. That was enough.

And I said that sometimes when we feel different we think people will look at us funny. But often that means no matter how someone is actually looking at us, we interpret it is as critical. Even if it’s not.

I proposed a new strategy.

Assume everyone loves you and supports you.

Because regardless of whether they do or don’t, it will make YOU happier.

If someone says, nice hair, say thank you. If you think they say are saying it with sarcasm say thank you even more emphatically. It will make those with good intentions happy and those with bad intentions confused.

Most importantly, you won’t have to wonder.

Which frees you up to be wonderful.