The Mohawk

Yesterday, as we drove home from our Cinco de Mayo dinner, I spotted a tough looking motorcyclist sporting a mohawk. I pointed out the burly cyclist to Will because he seems to have a fascination with that particular hair style.

“Awesome!” he cried.

Lori started to inform Will that he will never have one and I quickly hushed the comment. I’m thinking if we put a verbal ban on his adolescent desire for what he sees as a fun Mohawk, the seed of rebellion is then planted in his mind. I can clearly imagine Will crawling into his bedroom window instead of walking through the front door because of his newly unispiked hairstyle. I think Lori saw what I was thinking, so she resumed with a different approach.

Lori: I don't like mohawks.

Will: You don't like them?

Lori: I don't like how they look on people. Do you like how they look or do you want one?

Will: I want one.

Lori: No. Not on my watch.

Will: So you are saying it's not ever gonna happen?

Lori: Yes. That's what I'm saying.

Will: We'll see about that.

Seed of rebellion firmly planted and sprouting.