A couple of days ago I enjoyed a nice hairstyling moment --with my middle son. Yes. Isaiah. The gargantuan child brushing my hair ever so carefully and securing it with a clip. Does that read as oddly to you as it feels in real life for me?
It's not that I don't consider cosmetology a worthy profession. I've seen Barber Shop for crying out loud. I know that this is a decent and respectable role for a strong, black man to pursue. And supposing my boy grows up to be a stylist for the stars, that will rock and my love and support for his accomplishments will be sincere...eventually...after some processing time and a small measure of unsuppressed snickering behind his back.
You see, ever since this precious boy was a mere 6 months old but being squeezed into 2T clothing, we have been banking on the notion that he would someday take the world by storm as a renowned athlete, use his prestige for God's glory, give back to his community, and well, maybe just maybe, set his folks up with a sweet little bungalow beach house on a private island in the tropics. =)
Superbowl ring? Sure.
NBA championship? Heck yeah.
2024 Olympics? You betcha!
Cover of Cosmopolitan? uh....gulp.
Maybe he can do both, I muse to myself as he palms my head before brushing the hair back out of my face. Yeah. And that way, when he flashes a "Hi Mom!" poster during the Superbowl and the camera pans my way for all of two seconds, I will be beaming with pride and sporting perfectly sculpted hair! A mom can dream, right?