Master of disguise

In the bathtub the boys will splash happily, surrounded by their super hero action figures, until the water is cold and they're covered with goose bumps. But heaven forbid you need to wash their hair, things turn sour quickly. They deny, they get angry, they bargain, sulk then finally they accept their fate and their hair gets shampooed. It's a regular Kübler-Ross extravaganza performed by soapy kids. Only one thing can turn the tide. Mohawks.

After conning the kid into the initial rinse, I allow them to lather their own hair then assist them in scooping it up into a dramatic foamy ridge. They are instantly transformed into bad asses with punk rock sneers. Big Dog punches his fist into the air and Little Dog plays his imaginary drum set with a vigor that may lead him to be a rock legend.

After their last "styling," the boys nearly refused to let me wash their hair out. They wanted, no, needed mohawks. I managed to convince them I would help sculpt mohawks they could wear to school with the assistance of some styling aids, but I'd need to buy the right stuff. I promised I would and finally we were able to rinse, dry and head to bed.

I followed through on my promise and picked up some styling products on the way home from work. The next morning, we styled. Both boys sported rather impressive mohawks, and both boys wore them with absolute pride. When we dropped Big Dog at school, Little Dog demanded that I let him out of the car so he could show the kids on the playground "my cool hair!"

When we arrived at Little Dog's school his hair had transformed from an awesome do to an alternate personality. "They won't know me, mama," he told me with a smile as we walked into school. But they did. Immediately.
Little Dog turned to me, his eyes pleading, "Mama, how do they know me?"
"I don't know," I said. "Let's go check your hair in the mirror," I suggested.
When we looked in the mirror, Little Dog groaned. "I don't want a hawk," he groused. "I want a spike!"
Easy, I dampened my hands and worked the mohawk into a large spike of hair. He looked like some sort of child-unicorn hybrid, but man was he ever happy. And to add to his glee, I said, a bit more loudly than necessary, "Oh no! Who is this guy with the spike on his head and whatever happened to Little Dog???" winking at his teachers to get them in on the ploy.
"Oh my! That must be Spike Guy!" one teacher played along.
"I hope Little Dog is ok, this Spike Guy, he must be new!"
And they kept the game going even as I said my goodbyes and headed out the door.
When I picked him up at the end of the day, one of his teachers pulled me aside. Apparently the hair style was an ongoing theme all day.

"Who is this Spike Guy?" teacher C asked. Little Dog replied by putting his hands over his hairline and said "Teacher C, it's just me. Ansel!"
Later Little Dog parted his hair in the middle and sough out Teacher C. "You don't know me now!" he told her. He paused, then pushed his hair back to the side, smiled and ran off.
Maybe he has a future in the spy business. Or maybe he's just freakin' cute.