This blog is long...wish my hair still was

"Mrs. Mosiman, can you please put expensive batteries into this expensive toy that you graciously purchased as a classroom prize as incentive for students who are so lazy at this time of year that they would rather gnaw their pencils to a point rather than get up and actually sharpen them themselves?" a loving cherub requested politely. Ah...you say appreciatively...a work of fiction. Settle back, friend, and enjoy.

Turns out that the topic of this particular blog isn't about the marked lack of 4th grade gratitude in the face of the hundreds and hundreds of dollars that Brad Mosiman reluctantly spends all year stocking the classroom candy jar, stocking up on stickers, and purchasing prizes. "I should have bought stock in Five Below," he grumbles as I excitedly show off the three basketball-sized disco balls I just bought. 

No, this is about how, from September to June, I consciously avoid any and all changes to my appearance as elementary students, just beginning their journey of learning the art of subtle diplomacy, are brutal in their forthright commentary. But they're just being honest, some might argue. No, they are being rude, I shoot back, handing the head-in-the clouds clown my therapy bill. Outta the mouths of babes, others might say, following this idiotic idiom up by telling me that I'm being too sensitive. It's more like Into the mouths of brats (should go a bar of soap).

But I'm a teacher (or so says the diploma that I extracted from a box of Cracker Jacks) so, if the first line of defense fails (home), then my job is to bring out the big guns and play sweep. Apparently the adage "If you don't have anything nice to say..." is all talk and no action. Let's return to me attempting to remove a microscopic screw to install expensive batteries that could have bought me a burger, fries, and a hot fudge sundae from a certain fast food joint that, lately, has been really skimpy on the fudge.  First I squinted. I attempted better lighting. Better angles. I finally took off my glasses, squinted and, under the light of a 1,000 watt bulb, extracted the small screw at a 45 degree angle. "Mrs. Mosiman," my sweet student said, admiring the level of commitment I was devoting to this project of love, "You look creepy without your glasses." 

Thus began a 45-minute impromptu lesson on adjectives.

Another time, as my honeys and I were curled up on the read-aloud rug, a student with a sudden interest in fashion for women over fifty, interrupted our story with a probing question. "Why would you wear those shoes?" the student asked me incredulously, calling everyone's attention away from the battle waging in Narnia to the current battle of blisters forming on Mrs. Mosiman's bunioned feet. As this cherub has a history of unsolicited commentary regarding my teaching, fashion, and philosophic leanings, I unceremoniously kicked him out of the classroom. It was embarrassing to have to admit WHY I tossed him out to the office staff and his dad, but I stood (uncomfortably...you know, because of the blisters) behind my decision. 

But it got me thinking. You know, because I'm a teacher (as determined by my sticky, caramel-coated diploma). In addition to reading, writing, and math, perhaps I needed to intentionally add recognizing and reacting to polite social cues to my classroom curriculum. There is a LOT we expect children (and some pretty idiotic adults) to inherently know in regards to reading facial expressions, body language, and interpreting tone. 

I'd like to say that I got a haircut as part of a lesson plan. But, no. I am an emotional cutter (hair cutter). With the recent painful passing of our beloved dog, Juno, I immediately hacked away at my hair. Yes. I know better. Sydney Lynn, from 2,500 miles away, knew something was up. My phone rang. "What'ya doing?" Sydney asked, fearing the worst. Long pause. "Mom?" I took a deep swig of my Pepsi as I sat on the grassy meridian of a shopping plaza, a share-sized bag of M&Ms snuggled against my side. "I'm waiting for my appointment," I admitted. "To where?" Sydney demanded, quickly checking departure flights to see if she could get to me in time to schedule an intervention. "It's a hair place," I said around a mouthful of candy. "What's it's name?" my daughter, the queen of checking Yelp reviews continued. "The Hair Pit," I whispered, "I have to go...it's time." "NO-OO-OO..." I could hear her howl as I hung up, turning off my phone to face the music.

It was my own fault. "You paid $25 for a hair cut," Savannah told me, "so, yeah, it WAS your own fault." She had gotten her hair cut that same day...within minutes of me. My girls and I are so in sync that it sometimes scares me. "You may have paid more for your haircut," I argued, "but you said it didn't turn out the way you wanted it to." "That's because I'm in Texas," she admitted, "by Texas standards, it looks good. It's just BIG." 

Again. Totally my fault. My stylist was wonderful. She was playing on-line euchre when I walked in which I, of course, took as a sign from God ("Then why couldn't she have scheduled you earlier so you didn't have to sit in the parking lot meridian looking like a hobo?" Sydney countered. Away from me, Satan.). "How do we want it?" she asked, surreptitiously looking at (but not commenting on) my ravaged bangs. Mental note:  Ask her to be a guest speaker for my new curriculum on recognizing and reacting to polite social cues. "Past the shoulders, please," I responded. Fifteen minutes later, I lied (as I always do) about loving my new do, paid for the pain of now looking like fuzzy dandelion puffball and left. I wanted to hate my stylist but she's done EXACTLY as I'd asked. "Past my shoulders." I'd meant past my shoulders LONG. She'd interpreted it as past my shoulders SHORT. I hadn't communicated clearly enough. 

Now that the damage was done, Sydney immediately shifted from intervention to support. "It's adorable!" she coo-ed. Savannah tried to make me feel better by comparison. "It's not that bad. Remember when you got the hair cut where you ended up looking like the Little Dutch Boy from the paint cans?" Brad Mosiman employed the ostrich-head-in-the-sand approach. It's been over a week and he STILL hasn't mentioned my hair. 

I could avoid mirrors but I wasn't going to be able to avoid my class. 

Time to employ my first official lesson for my new curriculum. I made a poster for the door before my students arrived, sat down, folded my arms (body language), and waited. 

My early bird showed up first. I could see him reading the poster before he blew into the room. He stopped short and stared at me. Obviously, his mind went blank in shock at my alarming appearance. "Well?" I growled at him like Josey Wales ("Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?"). "I'll be right back," he stammered, stumbling back out of the room. He quickly made a selection from the menu of possible choices and returned confidently. "Nice haircut, Mrs. Mosiman!" "Why, thank you," I smiled back.

The rest of my honeys slowly ebbed in...most of them making acceptable choices...saving both my ego and their recess minutes. There were, naturally, a few outliers that I had to make adjustments for...adding to the the menu board. "It's not so bad," a Room 24 veteran observed, tilting his head. He watched, confused as I immediately stomped over to the poster and added his comment to the negative side. "But that was a compliment!" he protested. I explained, in detail, how his remark was NOT a compliment. Finally, Mr. Foot Fetish arrived. He stood a LONG time in front of the poster, agonizing over the choices. My colleague wandered over to join him. "What do you think?" she asked him. "I'm going to go with this one," he said, pointing. She nodded reassuringly. Like a deer entering a dawn-shrouded meadow, he inched into the room, sidling slowly over to me. I refrained from quick movements or making any loud sounds. I raised one quizzical eyebrow at him as he took a deep breath. "You look ten years younger, Mrs. Mosiman!" I smiled broadly at him as he sighed with relief. We're all still learning.

At first I didn't like how my hair looked but as least now its growing on me.