Hairstyles and boys and more

 

Hairstyles and boys and more

                        Frankie in the woods, aged six and a half.

In her post, Chris was talking about hairstyles.

When I used to meet Frankie from school, I noticed changing hairstyles among the boys. Certainly, some of the younger boys had different haircuts, but most of them still had the ‘tidy and presentable’ looks their mothers preferred.

Around the age of 9 or 10, and at some point in the summer holidays, as the boys moved from Year 4 to Year 5, self-expression became more evident. Formerly well-barbered locks were either allowed to grow or were mercilessly lopped into an approximation of the latest footballer/pop star look.

Those who favoured longer growth were governed by the natural condition of their hair. I didn’t see any chemically enhanced colouring or taming. Thus, curly hair grew out and around still cherubic faces, threatening to obliterate their features. Straight hair fell like a yard of pump water, either to be allowed to hang and swing, or tied back into a pony tail or held back off the face with an Alice band, though heaven forfend a boy should be told he was wearing any such item. One boy had beautiful thick hair in neat plaits. (His sister, incidentally, a few years younger than him, had and still has wonderful red hair so long that she can sit on it.)

So, by Year 6, most of the boys were in league with their barbers to adopt a different style. My 11-year-old grandson has had several 'styles', ranging from the Adolf Hitler/convict look to the 'can't see where I'm going' style, to 'I'm not really going bald, these are just fades’.

                                Frankie, in different woods, aged 11

It is quite difficult to be diplomatic (impossible for me, some would say, with some justification) when the little boy you’ve known and loved appears with a short back and sides so brutal that he looks as though he’s been condemned to hard labour in the hardest of hard prisons.

Currently, he is channelling some football hero or other who has tidy back and sides and an exaggerated mane that extends in front of him, and possibly serves the same purpose as a cat’s whiskers! He has gone through the ‘products’ phase, which is expensive, though I suppose it may return.

‘Old people don’t understand,’ Frankie was told when he reported the comments he received, to which the response was, ‘Old people understand more than you realise. There’s nothing new under the sun,’ followed by, ‘Who are you calling old?’ The remark stung, though, as it was intended to.

I wonder when he will start colouring his hair with something more permanent than the spray-on stuff. I remember when my son dyed his hair black, when he was about 16. His hair is naturally dark brown, but black was a step too far. His younger son, at university now, was ‘persuaded’ by a girl-friend to bleach his hair. Actually, it really suited his dark good looks, but I think natural is best.

It’s hypocritical of me to say that, because for many years I fought off the grey with varying shades of what the hairdresser called ‘caramel’. I refused to do what so many women do and go ‘blonde’ to hide the grey.

 Now, I can’t be bothered, and when I do eventually visit the hairdresser again, she will be surprised to see how grey I am. That’s if she remembers me, at all . . .