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Things Are Getting Hairy

19 Apr

You know that your wedding planning is entering its final stages when you start using Flight Tracker to see where in their journeys your out-of-town guests are. As I type this, my Mom and my brother are en route from Johannesburg to New York (a brutal flight that keeps you cooped up in a plane for 18 hours – I do not envy them). I will see my Mom on Thursday; my brother will arrive in Toronto from New York next week.

Things are coming together. There is still a lot to be done – so much so that thinking about my to-do list puts a knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach – but most of the little crises that have arisen have been resolved.

I have not had a nervous breakdown. I came close last week, though.

It was all about the hair. I had booked a hairdresser to come to my house and do hair for myself, my maid-of-honour, the bridesmaid and the flower girl. To be fair, the hairdresser had told me ahead of time that school commitments might get in the way and we might have to make other arrangements. That was a chance I took when I booked her. And sure enough, she called me a short time later and told me that she would not be able to help out.

I got in touch with another hairdresser, one whose rates seemed reasonable. The problem was that every time I spoke to the guy there, I was given a different quote. Each quote was progressively higher than the previous one. Eventually Gerard spoke to the guy, and he was given a much higher price than anything I had been told.

It was clear that we could not use this hairdresser. At this rate, we’d have to sell our house to pay him by the time the day of the wedding arrived. What this meant, though, was that with two weeks to go, I still had no hairdresser.

Any woman would agree that hair is kind of important on a wedding day.

I lost it. I started to have this weird little meltdown, ranting to anyone who would listen about how I was never going to find someone to do my hair, and how I would have to persuade my makeup artist to wing it and do it for me (this was before the makeup artist bailed on me with no warning).

Gerard was trying to calm me down but I was just so stressed. I was making these high-piched supersonic noises that only dogs can hear.

Gradually, the pitch of my voice lowered enough for my noises to loosely resemble speech. I was tearfully saying stuff like, “My hair is very important, you know.”

Gerard, in a kindly and patient tone, said, “Of course it is.”

I think he was doing that thing where you agree with everything a hysterical person is saying, no matter what. I could have said that mulberry trees were falling out of the sky, and he would have agreed with me.

In the end, Gerard told me not to worry about it. He said he had a plan to make it all better.

Sometimes, when Gerard tells me not to worry, I have the sense to trust him. This was one of those occasions. And true to his word, by the time I got home from work the following day, he had found and spoken to a hairdresser. The day was saved. Relative peace could reign once more.

Despite earlier threats to shave my head and put a tattoo of a butterfly on my scalp, I will be able to walk down the aisle with beautifully styled hair.

It’s a good thing. That tattoo would have hurt.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/25559122@N06/3811393733/)

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Hat Boy

22 Feb

Me and my Hat Boy

George has a thing about hats. He wears them all the time, even when he goes to bed. We have succeeded in getting him to take it off at bathtime, and both the school and the therapy centre have him remove it for his periods of instruction. But when he is at home, the hat is always on his head.

It’s not just any old hat, either. George is very picky about his hats – he will only wear his hat, and if his hat is not available, things in my household get very noisy and fraught as we struggle to keep him from banging his head in frustration. From time to time we have to switch out the old hat for a new one, because – well, you know – George is seven, and seven-year-olds have this habit of growing really fast.

The “new hat days” are traumatic for the entire family, so we tend to hold on to the current hat until the seams start to pop.

However, with age comes wisdom, and we have learned that whenever it’s time for a new hat, we have to get two that are the same. That way, when one starts smelling a bit ripe, we can throw it into the washing machine and let George wear the other one.

We suspect that George wears the hat to gain that slight feeling of pressure around his head. Kids with autism are frequently big on physical pressure, and George definitely falls into that category. He climbs onto the back of the couch and jumps from there onto the floor, because he craves the deep pressure input to his feet and legs. It would make sense for him to want pressure around his head as well.

In addition, though, I think George wears the hat in order to protect his head from being touched. He really, really, REALLY does not like people touching his head. He allows me to remove his hat and stroke his head, or run my fingers through his hair, but after just a few seconds he gets antsy and squirms away.

This is a problem.

For a start, there’s the practical problem of hair-washing. I don’t wash George’s hair as often as I should, because it is just so stressful for him. Hair-washing is a joint effort between me and Gerard, and it has to be planned with military precision, right down to getting my mother-in-law to whisk James away for the duration. Basically, what happens is that I wait until George isn’t watching, and then I fill a plastic basin with water and lay a shower curtain on the kitchen floor. Then Gerard uses his arms and legs to immobilize a screaming George, and I wash his hair as quickly as humanly possible.

It sounds barbaric, and I always feel so bad that I end up in floods of tears, but it is the only way we can wash his hair.

When people hear of the difficulties, they say to me, “Just keep his hair short”. If only it were that simple. This kid won’t let us wash his hair normally – why would anyone assume that he will let us anywhere near him with a pair of scissors or any other haircutting device?

Cutting his hair is as traumatic as washing it. So what I have to do is creep around my own house in the dark like a burglar, gingerly remove George’ s hat from his head, and then tentatively cut whatever bits of it that I can reach while he is sleeping. Sometimes it takes up to two weeks to complete a haircut because George tends to lie down the same way every night.

We may be making progress, though, thanks to the wonderful folks at the therapy centre that George spends four mornings a week at.

The therapists had me complete a sensitivity questionaire, describing the issues with washing and cutting his hair, and two weeks ago they started a desensitization program. This morning George’s therapy supervisor called me to give me an update.

“We combed his hair,” she said.

“What, ALL of it?” I asked, incredulously. Usually my hair-combing attempts have to be aborted, so each day I start on a different side of his head, just to ensure full coverage every two days.

“All of it,” said the supervisor. She went on to tell me that she had put ear-muffs on George, and that this seemed to help with the sensitivity around his ears.

“He kept on ear-muffs?” I asked. Not sounding very intelligent at this point. Think Village Idiot.

“AND,” continued the supervisor, “We have sprayed his entire head with leave-in conditioner.”

Holy bat, Crapman! Who is this short person and what has he done with my son?

So, it would appear that the desensitization program is working like a charm. It will still be a long time before we can actually wash his hair normally, or cut it while he is awake, but with baby-steps, we will get there.

The staff at the therapy centre are absolutely incredible. Thanks to them, George will be ready for discharge into full-time school (with special ed support) by September.

He might be ready.

Me, not so much.