On the day after Thanksgiving, my two sons, aged five and eight, decided to get full-on, 80s-style Mohawks. This was decided by the boys and their mother within the space of five minutes. Within an hour, each of the boys sported a closely-shaved head with a thick, hairy stripe of rebellious hair running down the middle.
The Mohawk is a classic rebellion move, designed to give a big, fat hairy finger to "The Man." I would be immensely proud of my kids, if it weren't for one thing:
I hate my kids' Mohawk haircuts.
This confused me at first. Why would their haircuts bother me? Both of the boys look kinda cool. And, as far as I know, neither of them are going for any job interviews in the near future.
Then I realized what the problem was. I am "The Man." I discipline the boys. I force them to eat leafy, green vegetables. I make them do homework. I have - God help me - actually bought them food from McDonald's that didn't come with some kind of toy.
I'm not supposed to like their Mohawks.
Don't mistake me. I don't like being "The Man." In fact, I specifically purchased my IPod to show that I'm not like the rest of my peers. No way. I'm hip. I'm cool. I'm so funky, in fact, that I need a portable music device with a thousand songs on it because the urge to dance might overcome me at any moment.
You know, like Ren McCormack in "Footloose." I can't count the number of times I've stifled the urge to kick off my Sunday shoes.