I've written a good bit on the innate differences between boys and girls. My incessant state of wonder at all things female is probably why I could never... NEVER imagine writing a book with a female protagonist. I just don't get it.
This weekend, my cousin is getting married. The wedding is on Catalina (that's an island, inlanders). So, last night, my wife departed for a long weekend, along with her mother and a good friend.
Look: guys do not like weddings. What makes you think we do? Are you kidding me? Just... no. It's okay, though... my wife is very tolerant of my tastes, as I am of hers.
Anyway, so before she leaves yesterday, my twelve-year-old daughter looks at her and says, "Do you need me to fix your hair?"
And I'm sitting there on the couch, with a beer, watching this... thinking to myself, those are words I have never said to anyone in my life.
So my wife and daughter disappear into a bathroom for the hair-fixing session.
Meanwhile, I look over at my son, who's working on a composition on the computer. And I'm thinking, I wonder what he would do if I asked him if I wanted to fix his hair?
Because, now that I look at it, he does kind of look like a bum.
Ah... who cares? It's not like he's going to a wedding or anything.
When I was a kid, the way the "older generation" of males would suggest fixing your hair to younger dudes was usually by saying something like, "Why don't you cut your hair and get a job, you goddamned pot smoking hippie?"
So I try it. I say, "Hey son, why don't you cut your hair and get a job, you goddamned pot smoking hippie?"
He laughs and says, "That's funny, Dad."
That's how we fix hair.
My wife comes out. She looks happy. My daughter looks happy.
Her hair looks exactly the same.
That's the other thing. I think guys only notice a "hair fix" on a woman if they come back looking like freakin' Sinead O'Connor. Maybe not even then.
So, I have no plans for this weekend. I am not going to fix my son's hair. He's not going to fix mine. And we're okay with that.