Short Stories – Slow Lane

Life in the Slow Lane
Lilijo ®

Okay, I know the punk rock look is in, but why did it have to visit my house?  I was hoping if I painted a psychedelic guitar on my garage door, the angel of heavy metal would pass over it. No such luck.

Eons ago, or so it seems, my 17-year-old son thought he would surprise me. He nearly gave me cardiac arrest. Earlier in the year, I had quietly succumbed to his piercing his ear, having been grateful that he had had the forethought and good sense (?) not to pierce any major part of his anatomy. But when he came home with a haircut like a character straight out of one of James Fenimore Cooper’s novels it was definitely the last straw. He said he thought I would laugh. LAUGH – I almost went hysterical. Ah, that was long ago. We’ve come to a stalemate. He does his thing (whatever that is) and I pretend not to notice.

My biggest thrill, however, was the day he declared he had a job. A JOB! My prayers were answered, I thought, thankfully looking up to the heavens. Soon, glowing reports, from him naturally, came in on how he was “burger material” (so that’s what they put in those things). One evening he showed off his McMedals of honor – insignias of spatulas and grills emanated from his name tag. My spirits soared envisioning how he would soon be wearing pin stripe suits and button-down collared shirts. That hallowed dream was short-lived. With his first paycheck, he went out and pierced his ear AGAIN. I was baffled! Again, I made no comment. I was sure the worst was coming. Next paycheck, he was brandishing a tattoo on his arm.

“Ain’t it beautiful,” he beamed.

The following week for the annual rite of spring—the Senior Prom, he sauntered in decked out in an all-white tuxedo replete with tails, gloves, cane, and BLUE hair. It was all I could do to stifle my laughter. Downtrodden, he went to his room. Soon after, in exasperation, he told me how he hated his hair and was going to do something about it.

“Oh good, honey,” I said. Then remembering the days of the Mohawk quickly replied, “Don’t do anything drastic!”

This too shall pass, I muttered, or, so I thought.

After a long day in a law library searching for dusty old law in dusty old books, I made my way to my serene abode. Dinner would be waiting for me, my children, anxious to see me, would run up and kiss me, take my briefcase and lead me to the dining table. Upon entering, my eyes met my 14-year-old daughter wearing a baseball cap, a sweatshirt and jeans. It was a refreshing image to see, rather than the premature sophisticate “BRATZ” look she tries to don. This melancholy portrait was soon destroyed as my 7-year-old daughter ran in and made a B-line for her sister’s hat. With the swiftness of a hawk snatching its prey from the underbrush, she denuded her sister’s head to reveal a mass of reddish blond straw-like hair.

“AAAGH!” I shouted, “What have you done?”

After a litany of insults and profanities—all mine—and in a borderline state of sanity, I sat down. My soul mate looked at me in helplessness. My little one was at my side. I gave her my warm mommy smile and there before my eyes were two blond streaks smeared across her beautiful brunette curls. Frankenstein’s stepchild no less! More screams!!! I don’t know whose were louder—hers from fear or mine from disbelief. What was going on here, a Clairol epidemic? Did a mutant virus drift in through the window and infuse itself in each of my kids’ hair—just to make my day!

Later that evening, my teen daughter apologized. She asked me help restore her natural auburn color.

Smart mom that I am, I answered, “You’ll just have to go to school like that until we figure out what to do.”

Disconsolate, she made her way to her room.

“Haha, that’ll teach her,” I snorkeled.

Tagged life, short stories, teenagers