I was at Bandito Taco, sitting across from my fifteen-year-old last week. It was a "You're Done With Finals" celebratory lunch. It was fun. It was mom and son bonding at its best. He said, "thank you" for the meal about five times in twenty minutes. It was a perfect moment.
Except I couldn't take my eyes off that fuzzy pre-pre-mustache above his lip. It was too dark not to notice, but also very, very fine. It was driving me nuts.
What do you do with a thing like that? Is it even razor-worthy? Should we just bleach it? Did facial hair even fall into my realm of responsibility? (I was fairly certain it did not.) This was uncharted man-territory for sure and I was lost. One thing I knew for sure, however:
That thing had to go.
I waited until our magical, special Bandito Taco time was over, until we were about half-way home, before I broached the subject.
"When we get home," I said, "I want you go to upstairs into my bathroom. I want you to open my bathroom drawer and find dad's electric razor. Then I want you to shave that thing off your lip. You know what I'm talking about, right?"
He smiled and nodded. We didn't need to discuss the issue further.
Later that afternoon the thing was gone. Mostly. He probably could have done with a bit of an electric razor tutorial, but I was not going to be that tutor. But, best of all, I had my boy back.
My butting in is probably just getting started. After all, if my realm of responsibility includes shaving instruction, maybe I could suggest a cooler hair style? Well, any hair style, really.
Because lately, when I sit across from him at dinner, I can hardly stand looking at his hair.