My Long Haired Freaky Hippie Boy

Independence comes to people at different times in their lives. Sometimes, independence is brought forth through social uprising or revolution in its most extreme examples. For those of us who take our independence and freedom for granted because we have known it all of our lives, there are varying degrees of personal independence that we immerse ourselves in over time. Sometimes it is taken in gradual steps and other times, we recognize true freedom in one foul swoop as liberating our Mom's '84 Tercel Station Wagon from the confines of the driveway at 11PM and setting that baby free on the long stretching sandy beaches near St. Augustine when the folks are on vacation. (the latter of course is followed by long stretches in which one's independence might be again restricted for longer more painful periods of time, but freedom does indeed have its price).
In our formative years, we are more likely to go the way of small steps of independence. Watching Lauren for the past three plus years reminds me of that. Originally, we are trapped by the cruel nature of the human body that doesn't allow us to move freely. Eventually we learn how to turn over onto our stomachs, only to be outdone by mobility when we start to crawl. Before anybody catches on, we are stumbling around upright (only falling because to do so, means that we have thrust ourselves faster in the direction that we were heading, and generally, we are picked up by a larger person who can assist us in getting where we need to go faster). The progression continues until we are fully mobile and then, we start to utilize machinery to help us to expand our freedom--first that tricycle, then the two-wheeler with training wheels, and so on and so forth. I am sure that there are more progressions, but Lauren is only three, for crying out loud, I can't possibly forecast what comes next.
Aside from mobility, we begin to grab personal freedoms as well. These can come in all sorts of forms, from the foods we will eat (or not eat), to the clothes we wear, our personal grooming standards, boxers or briefs, and in each of these choices, our personality is somewhat changed. I bring this up because Hunter is starting to really define who he is on his own terms. To us, he has always been the goofy, funny, sports-challenged, video game playing sparkle in our eye. In a somewhat lazy way, he has continued to let his mother pick out his clothes each day (even though Lauren is already refusing to let us pick out even her pajamas at night without her approval). Look, I get in trouble if I pick out a pair of Dora the Explorer underpants when I should have known that today was Strawberry Shortcake, but as usual, that is another topic for another day. Hunter's underwear choices rarely enter into the realm of Strawberry Shortcake or Dora, but we would support him, even if it did. For those of you keeping track at home, he is a boxer (not briefs) guy, though when he pulls the waistband up to his chest, it creeps even me out.
The true independence that Hunter has embraced most recently has to do less with his wardrobe and more with his hair. For years, Kim has tried her best to keep him from growing too old too quickly. Right before our eyes, with no warning from him, he has escaped the little boy phase of his life and has become (I hate to say it out loud) a kid. You know the difference when you see it. They once had that little boy innocence, and now they have become mischievous full time. Like everything else, it started without any hue and cry, but rather mildly and without incident. Hunter decided that he would no longer get off at our bus stop two houses down, and instead, he and his friend Julien get off one stop earlier, about 1/2 a mile before our house. They then proceed to spend 30 minutes walking through the wash (Arizona for ditch) chasing each other and muddying up their shoes--you know, boy stuff. This happened one day about a month ago, and they have been doing every day since. I'm pretty sure that the busdriver has no idea that two 8 year olds are getting off at the wrong stop each day, but he is a brain-dead mutant anyway (nothing like entrusting our childrens life into the throngs of the truly enlightened on a daily basis--at least they still don't have seatbelts on those darn busses, boy would they be a nuisance).
It is good that Hunter does this--I think it is great that he gets some guaranteed exercise every day with his little walk, and the two of them generally are engaged in nothing but harmless fun (it isn't rattlesnake season for a couple more months). Occasionally, we have to walk down there to make sure that they are moving beyond the snail's pace that has been the trademark speed at which Hunter has motored through life. It will be years until he and Julien have stashed a bottle of Boone's Farm that they convinced a hobo to buy for them at Circle K under a rock, so for now, the only thing that we regulate is their pace.
Sticking it to the man by getting off the bus wherever they damn well please was only the first step toward Hunter's growth to true independence. About six weeks ago, when Hunter was due for a haircut, we gave him the choice that we always do, either Mom can cut it for you, or we can go to Great Cuts and get it done there. He goes back and forth on this, but in general, he doesn't care one way or the other (pretty much his Mantra on most things). This time was different--he suddenly had an opinion on the subject and decided that he didn't need a haircut from Mom, Great Cuts or anybody. He was going to let his hair get long, and he wasn't going to let anybody (including that busdriver) tell him otherwise. So for the past couple of months, he has gone without the grooming that we have become accustomed.
I'm going to say something here that may or may not be interpreted as it is intended (I don't know why on earth I would qualify any of my remarks at this point, if you haven't figured that out yet, I can't imagine that you would still be reading), but my son does not have the best hair in the world to begin with. It hasn't looked right since he was wearing that baby Caesar haircut when he was two, and no matter what my wife or any barbershop does, he is follically challenged. So when he decided that he wanted to be a good for nothing hippie, well I was all for it. Like so many things in life, his hair is now at that "akward in-between" phase, where it just looks dissheveled no matter what he does. There are cowlicks where cowlicks had never dared go before and the growth over his ears gives him the unwashed, uninspired, trailer-park look that we have come to enjoy.
Everybody goes through one of these long-hair phases. We all want to know what we look like, and at the time, it just seems right. The best part is when we get to look back at just how absolutlely preposterous we look at this point in our lives. Those of you who have known me for years can attest to the latter stages of high school where I went two or three years without cutting my 'fro, and looking back now, you should all be shown a long, painful, torturous death for allowing it to happen. What the hell was I thinking?
Childhood is all about stretching the boundaries and becoming our own person. My hippie child (I think we should all start calling him moonbeam or lillypad or washwalker or something cool and hippie like that) is bent on growing his hair out as long as we can tolerate--and believe me, there will be a breaking point somewhere down the road, where our precious Moonbeam is awakended by the gentle whirring hum of the hair clippers and finds himself tied down to a barber's chair as his dirt colored clumps are taken from him in a cruel realization of the power of our tyranny, and there will be hell to pay. He is convinced that his new do is a magnet for the ladies, and that now that he has long hair, they will be knocking down the door for a ride on the Bubbie-go-round. Freedom is a strange and wonderful thing. It shouldn't take the absurd hairdo of an eight year old boy to recognize that--the Dora underpants should have been our first clue.