Ninety-nine Percent Spirit

It had seemed a dare when seven-year-old Eric asked, “Will you give me a mohawk?” as I’d begun to shave the blond hair from his head one March afternoon.

“Do you really want one?” I feigned nonchalance, hoping he’d answer, “No.”

“Yes,” he replied.

I knew what had prompted this request—a story he’d heard many times from his father.

As Rich waited for his 1964 summer shearing, he asked, “Dad, will you give me a mohawk?”

“I’ll give you one, but it’ll only last until your mother gets home.”

“All right.”

Rich had four glorious hours that day, the envy of his neighborhood. But when his mother saw the mohawk, his glory ended.

“RICHARD BULEY! Who saw you like this? ROBERT, cut his hair RIGHT NOW!”

Eric and Colin loved to hear Rich tell this story and, each time, their laughter was as though they had never heard it before. In Rich’s story, his mother was the spoilsport. Thus, Eric’s request to me, his mother, was a challenge.

“So, can I have a mohawk?” Eric asked.

Looking into his sparkling blue eyes, I took a deep breath before answering. “Okay.”

Hoping he’d change his mind after he saw what he looked like, I wasn’t very precise in my shearing. The mohawk was wider in front than in back but Eric, unable to see a rear view, grinned as he studied his reflection in the mirror. Colin’s admiring gaze reinforced Eric’s confidence in his new style.

The boys, eager to show Eric’s haircut to our neighbors, headed out the door before I’d swept the bathroom floor.

Later, Eric echoed part of a conversation that had taken place in Reiners’ home.

Brandon, his eight-year-old buddy, excitedly told his mom, “Eric has a mohawk!”

Bev, disbelieving, came into their entryway to see for herself. “Does your mother know about this?”

“Yeah—she gave it to me,” Eric said.

“She must be losing her marbles!” Bev replied.

When Rich returned home that evening, Eric proudly displayed his new hairstyle. “Looks good,” Rich said.

The following morning as Eric prepared to go to school, he dug my old red bandanna out of the box of dress-up clothes. “Will you tie this on my head?”

“I wore this scarf in college,” I said. “If someone would’ve told me then that one day my son would cover his mohawk with it, I would’ve thought she was crazy!”

Eric laughed as I tied the bandanna at the nape of his neck. “Is any of my hair showing?” he asked.

“No.”

Watching him walk to the corner bus stop, backpack slung over his shoulder, I wished him well.

That afternoon, Eric climbed off the bus, his head uncovered. “What did everyone say about your hair?”
four-year-old Colin asked, the moment Eric walked through our doorway.

“They thought it was cool.” Since he now considered himself to be on the cutting edge of style, he didn’t request a follow-up haircut, much to my dismay.

Four days after I cut Eric’s hair, I went alone to Sunday Mass. I was secretly relieved; Eric’s mohawk would have been certain to elicit a lot of head turning.

On my way into church, I saw my friend Amy. “Bev told me Eric has a mohawk,” Amy said. “She said, ‘I can’t believe Karen gave him one—she’s usually so conservative!’”

We laughed, knowing Bev was right. It was out of character for me to give my son a mohawk.

As I sat in the stillness of church, waiting for Mass to begin, I asked myself, “Why did I give Eric a mohawk?”
I didn’t have the answer. Maybe it was because I wanted to be a “cooler” mom that my mother-in-law had been. Perhaps it was because I had really believed that Eric would be less enamored with a mohawk than with the thoughts of one. Or, most likely, it was because what he was asking for was not something dangerous, like to ride his bicycle without wearing a helmet. And the old adage, “Pick your battles,” spoke most emphatically to this point.

That morning, Father Jim did not realize how timely his homily was for me. He talked about society, and the norms imposed upon us by our culture. One statement he made really hit home. “…If you dye your hair to cover the gray, that’s acceptable. But if you dye your hair orange, you’re suspect…” He went on to discuss appearances that are questioned versus those that aren’t.

I left Mass with an increased sense of peace regarding Eric’s hair. “Great homily!” I said, giving Father Jim a hug on my way out the door.

For three weeks the mohawk was a part of Eric’s special identity. Then, after school one day he asked me to shave his hair. Despite the poignant message of Father Jim’s homily, I was thrilled to get out the clippers and give him a complete buzz cut.

Months later, I came to realize why I did what Eric had asked of me that March afternoon. I once heard, “We are ninety-nine percent spirit, one percent looks.”

Eric’s spirit soared during the three weeks he sported a mohawk. And it continued. One day, while I was visiting him on the school playground, an unknown fourth-grader asked, “Are you the kid who had the mohawk?”

Ah, the sweetness of being recognized by an older child. And ah, the sweetness of facilitating a moment of glory like that for my son. Surely it is one of the simpler pleasures of motherhood.