I think my first post may have come off as a tad bit angsty,
so I thought I’d lighten the mood a bit by complaining about something a little
less weighty in the morality department:
My children’s hair. Or, more specifically, certain people’s
responses to my children’s hair.
For some inexplicable reason, strangers are often
flabbergasted by the fact that my boys have different haircuts, like it’s the
most novel idea in the world not to
turn twins (even fraternal ones) into creepy, carbon copies of one another,
grooming them as actors for some future big break in another remake of The Parent Trap.
One of the more interesting things I've noticed about twins,
in both my own and those of others, is that they seem to have starkly different
personalities. Certainly this isn't always the case, but based on my
conversations and interactions with other parents of twins, it is more often
than not. I’m sure there’s some sort of scientific study or theory out there
proposing a biological explanation, but I like to think that it’s the result of
my boys getting bored in utero and passing the time by playing “rock, paper,
scissors” for major personality traits. (This would also explain the
frequent—and sudden—urges to pee while I was pregnant; someone must have been
partial to “rock.” On my bladder.)
My youngest (by about 30 seconds), Oliver, tends to be a bit
more on the timid side (which is not to say that he can’t also be a typical
loud, rambunctious toddler at times). He is also an organizer. A neat freak. A
bit of a perfectionist, really. To give you some perspective, when the boys are
playing with toy cars, Oliver can usually be found arranging them neatly by
color, as though they’re lined up in some oddly beautiful funeral procession
for Rainbow Brite, while his brother engages them in head-on collisions (like,
literally, throwing them at Oliver’s head). Ollie compulsively asks to wipe his
nose, even when there’s nothing there. He becomes visibly and verbally
distraught upon noticing a hangnail or loose thread on his sock, and can’t rest
easy until the issue is resolved. It is an endearing quality, and one that I
hope yields favorable dividends when we hit the teenage years.
Trystan, on the other—less manicured—hand, is my powerhouse,
always-active, wild child. When left to his own devices, he will happily eat dirt,
pillage in trash cans, and use his own bodily fluids as makeshift hair gel
(this is especially disgusting when he’s got a cold). He actually asks me to
lift him up so he can do “pull-ups” on the monkey bars at the playground. He
loves to be chased, jump on the bed (using my spine as a springboard, if
necessary), and has no problem with the gnarly runner toenails he somehow inherited
from his Mama. I don’t think “tidy” is in Trystan’s realm of understanding yet,
and the only time I really see him distressed over a mess is when we pass by
mud puddles that I refuse to let him jump in. While Oliver typically sits
patiently still as I dab his face clean with a washcloth after a particularly
messy meal, Trystan acts as though I’m ripping out his fingernails with heated
pliers. He is high energy, nearly all the time, and—even though it can be
exhausting—it is so much fun.
So, besides the fact that getting Trystan to sit still for a
haircut would likely require props from the set of Fifty Shades of Grey, I've opted to give them glaringly different
‘dos to reflect their glaringly different personalities.
Yeah, we know...these looks work for us. And we work the camera. It's a double-whammy. |
Sometimes, when Trystan is having a particularly wacky hair
day, total strangers find it their civic duty to address the state-of-his-hairs
(see what I did there?). I've noticed this happens most frequently either when he's just woken up, or at the
bottom of the various tube slides at the playground, when the static
electricity makes it appear as though he stuck his tongue in an electrical
socket (which he would probably do, if I didn't have our outlet covers
duct-taped firmly in place), causing his bright blond locks to tuft about his sizable
head like dandelion seeds.
This, in conjunction with his adorably manic facial
expressions, often solicits comments like, “Whoa, look at all that hair!” or
“Looks like you've got a little wild child on your hands!” Why, yes, I do have “a little wild child,” and
that’s precisely why I don’t really care if his hair is out of control. It reflects the madness within! Others
opt for the less-subtle approach of, “Looks like it’s time for our first
haircut!” in that typical, I’m-joking-but-not-really fashion (which I find
almost as annoying as the use of the collective possessive pronoun “our”; why
do people talk like this? Do you intend on joining my kid on a trip to the
kiddie salon?). Or, people will see that
Ollie’s got a military-style haircut, and say something like, “Oh, his brother
would look cute with his hair cut like that, too.” Yeah, he would. He’d look
cute bald, or in dreadlocks, or wearing a dress. He’s a cute kid. I’m still not
cutting his hair.
These backhanded suggestions about chopping my 'fro are making me angry. |
My boys are individuals. They have separate interests,
separate personalities, and separate craniums. Yes, being a “twin” is a part of
each of their identities, but they are more than just, collectively, “The Twins.” They deserve individual recognition, separate birthday cards, and their
own freakin’ hairstyles. When they’re old enough to tell me how they want their
hair cut, I will allow them to make that decision. Until then, it's crew cuts
and snot-locks.
Why are we still talking about hair, Mama? All we care about is cars. |
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