Because I Said So by Shari Low

Because I Said So by Shari Low

Author:Shari Low [Low, Shari]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781786696724
Publisher: Head of Zeus


2011

Grooming Regimes and Holiday Schemes

Hair Today

The atmosphere was tense. The pressure was mounting. Scissors in hand, the hairdresser looked decidedly apprehensive as the client sat down and announced, ‘Can I have two centimetres off the back please, some shape around the sides, and the fringe has to be long enough for me to flick it, but not too long because I can’t have it in my eyes when I’m playing football.’

The hairdresser? Me. The client? Ronaldo Low. My son. Aged ten. And his eight-year-old wee brother was next in line at Salon Low, with a list of coiffure demands that would make Lady Gaga seem low-maintenance.

I demand a steward’s enquiry. I was under the impression that boys were largely reticent in the hygiene department until they got their first serious girlfriend, whereby they then divided all of their spare time between the shower and the Brut counter in Boots.

I may be showing my age there.

But the point is that I thought I had a few more years before they were nicking my deodorant and sneaking my hair gel into their sports bags.

Apparently not. Somewhere in the last couple of months, the junior Lows have been possessed by the Gods of Lynx and Justin Bieber and they’re now more image-conscious than the imaginary love child of David Beckham and JLS.

It’s actually making me wistful for those heady days when I had to bribe them with Top Trump cards to brush their teeth. I’m mourning those giddy times when I would leave a trail of Skips from their bedroom door to the bath in the hope that they’d voluntarily go within a few yards of soap. And I well up every time I think of those precious moments when I’d prise their socks off them to shouts of ‘But Mum, they’re not even dirty yet – I’ve only had them on for two days.’

How did this happen?

Low the Younger has always been strangely obsessed by dressing smartly. I blame Bugsy Malone. He watched it forty-three times over a weekend in 2007, and ever since then he refuses to leave the house unless he’s wearing a suit and a pork pie hat.

He blew all the money he got for Christmas on a tuxedo jacket, so he’s either going to be an orchestra conductor, a chauffeur or the best-dressed plumber in Glasgow.

However, I took comfort in the fact that, although he permanently looked like Boy at Burton, he still had punk-rock hair and fingernails that could have been picking potatoes.

Now? We had a ten-minute ‘debate’ in the beauty products aisle at Asda last week because I refused to cave in to a request for a coconut and vanilla toiletry set.

Meanwhile, his big brother is going to end up with lopsided shoulders, because the repetitive flicking of his head to ensure perfect positioning of the aforementioned fringe is building up Schwarzenegger muscles on one side of his neck. He can speak like John Freida on the merits of mousse versus hair wax. And – sob – I caught him co-ordinating his socks and jumper last week.



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