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Crazy, but not too crazy
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Perfectly normal, thank you very much
The whole family is in the car; we’re listening to the radio, when a story comes up about two guys who were sentenced to 40 years in federal prison for growing some pot in a field somewhere. Forty years is quite a lot, we comment, for growing a little pot. What do you get when you grow a lot of pot? The chair?
“What’s pot?” My daughter asks from the backseat.
Oops.
“Hey,” I ask her, “Isn’t it Red Ribbon Week at your school? What are they teaching you?”
(Red Ribbon Week is a time to focus on and teach about healthy choices. Don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t do drugs. Learn about fire safety, stay away from strangers, learn about healthy things you can put in your body, and unhealthy things you should stay away from.)
“Don’t do drugs,” she says.
I tell her that pot is a drug.
“What do you think drugs are?” I ask her.
“Alcohol.”
My husband, who has one beer per week, and enjoys that very much, snorts. He goes into a long explanation about the difference between regular drugs, and illegal drugs.
My daughter isn’t interested; all she cares about during red ribbon week is the fact that she gets to dress up every day. No school uniforms; they get to wear athletic gear, dress up as literary characters, wear crazy hair or hats. For weeks, she looks forward to it; “crazy-hair-day” in particular is something to obsess over.
The morning of, she comes downstairs in a classy black dress, tights, black ballerinas; she wears her hair in a neat little twist at the nape of her neck.
“Are you ready for me to do your hair?” I say, hairspray at the ready. I yawn; we had to get up extra early to allow time for her hair, which, I’m sure needs braids, teasing, bows, and strange little concoctions only she can think of.
“No,” she says, “I’m going like this.”
“Like what, like you’re going to a Bar Mitzvah?”
“No. I just want to go like this.”
“But it’s crazy-hair-day. Your hair’s not crazy.”
“I don’t want to look crazy; I want to look pretty.”
“You’ve been looking forward to this for ages.”
“I know.”
“You’ll regret it when you come to school,” my husband adds. “Nobody will pay attention to your hair.”
“I know.”
In truth, everybody has been paying a lot of attention to her hair all week. The red dye from Halloween isn’t washing out, like we hoped; maybe she is tired of it, and thinks it’s time for others to carry the crazy torch. That would be a first; or maybe she is just devious enough to know that, when everybody participates in sanctioned craziness, the craziest thing you can do is look normal. Maybe, when its time for college, I should send her to a place with a party reputation, and she can stand out by being really, really good.
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