Tag Archives: mum

The Haircut

2 Aug

When I was 14, I decided it would be a good idea if I shaved my head. I’d asked my mum if I could have a ‘grade 1 all over’ but she’d refused on the account that she thought I’d look like a thug. I tried to argue that it would save me time in the mornings, plus keep me cool (it was the Summer), but still she wouldn’t let me, so I did what any young boy would do; I did it anyway.

 I waited for her to go shopping one Saturday afternoon, retrieved the clippers from the bathroom, and got to work. As my hair cascaded down off my shoulders and onto the floor, I started wondering about how much trouble I’d get into. I realised that I’d made a mistake but I’d gone so far that I had to finish off the job regardless. After shaving off the remainder of my hair, I stood back and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like a thug at all – more like The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas with an illness. Panic set in, so I ran out of the house and to the park to play footy with my friends.

 They all loved my new look. I was greeted with shouts of ‘SKIN HEAD’ and they all wanted to stroke my fuzzy scalp. It made me feel better about what I’d done and I soon forgot all about the trouble I’d get into when I got home.  A couple of hours passed, and everyone had to go home for dinner. Reluctantly I made my way home. My mum was still out; result!

 “What the fuck have you done?” were my brothers exact words as I walked into the kitchen.

 “What does it look like?”

 He started laughing at me.

 “Mum’s going to kill you. Hahahaha. This is going to be brilliant. I knew you’d done it because I saw all the hair in the bin. You utter wanker!”

 By now I was bricking it.

 “What shall I do? Can we try and sort of stick it back on do you think?”

 My brother laughed.

 “It’s all in the bin mate. You’re dead!”

 I was in big trouble. I even thought about shaving both of the cats and using their fur on my head. I had to do something. Anything. As thoughts raced through my brain, I heard a car pull up on the drive. My brother looked out and confirmed my fears that mum was home. I grabbed a black sweatshirt, and tied in around the top of my head; I copied the way I’d seen ladies wrap towels around their wet hair.

 My mum came into the kitchen and started putting the food she’d just bought away, whilst asking what we’d been up to. Eventually she looked at me and asked why I had a jumper on my head.

 “Errmmm, well we were playing football and I wanted to be Ruud Gullit, so I just played like this because it’s like I have dreads”

 “You pillock, you look more like that woman from M-People”

 I’d gotten away with it, for now at least. For the whole evening and the following day, I managed to go about my business with my shaved head without my mum noticing, by just wearing a jumper on my head when I came out of my bedroom. However, Monday morning came and the inevitable happened. As I went to leave for school with yet another jumper tied around my head, my mum called me back.

 “You can’t wear that to school. Take it off”

 “I’ll take it off when I get there”

 “No you won’t, give it here”, and with that she pulled it off my head.

 Before she could start shouting at me I spluttered,

 “It…it..just fell out”

 “FELL OUT? WHEN!”

 “Over the weekend”

“WELL WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?! JUST FELL OUT? Right come on, I’ll book an appointment with the doctor; you might have a serious illness”.

 With that she went to the phone, dialed the number and began to book an appointment.

It took me until we pulled up outside the doctor’s surgery to admit what I had done. I had thought about trying to blag it, but I didn’t have the balls for that. I received a huge lecture about lying and disobeying my mum. I felt terrible.

A few years later I found out that she knew all along what I had done because, like my brother, she’d seen all the hair in the bin. She just wanted to see if I’d own up and how long I’d keep on wearing jumpers on my head.

My Worst Injury

12 Aug

It was the Summer Holidays and I must have been about 14. I was sat on the window sill of my brother’s bedroom, watching as he leapt off his bed onto an inflatable bed which was on the floor. As he landed on one end of the air bed, our cousin David, positioned strategically at the other end, would fly a good couple of feet into the air before landing in a heap on the floor. We got a lot of amusement out of this (although my mum was beginning to get slightly pissed off with all the noise we were making).

Things progressed and my brother went from a standing jump off of his bed, to a few-bounces-on-the-mattress-then-leap technique. We found that this made David go even higher. What we hadn’t accounted for though, was my brother’s bed breaking. As he prepared himself for the biggest jump yet, propelling himself higher and higher off his mattress, the bed suddenly gave way. My brother fell backwards towards me and I instinctively reached out to push him away. As I moved my arms outwards, I felt myself lean backwards slightly, and began circling my arms manically trying to regain my balance.

By this point, my back was at a 45 degree angle to my legs and I was shouting ‘SHIT,SHIT, SHIT’ as I knew what was about to happen. My last attempt at saving myself was to grab hold of one of the curtains. I stopped falling momentarily, and then felt myself go once more as the curtain pole gave way. Now, my face was covered by a curtain and I knew the landing was sure to hurt. I braced myself.

My brother slowed the speed at which I was falling by grabbing my foot, but he didn’t have the strength to save me – my slipper came off in his hand. I landed with an almighty crash onto the garage roof below the window and felt pain instantly. I removed the curtain from my head and surveyed my body. A few grazes to my hands and knees, nothing too bad. Then I felt a warm trickle on my ear. I felt the back of my head with my hand, and I had a deep gouge which was filled with grit and moss and was pissing blood. I looked at my hand; it was completely covered in head blood. It was at this point that the pain got worse.

My mum thundered up the stairs ready to tell us off about the noise, only to find me peering up through the open window, saying, “Get me a towel you fat knacker”, to my brother, who was stood dumfounded with slipper in hand. When I saw the look on her face, I knew that my head was in a bad way.
12 stitches later and we were bouncing off the mattress again, only this time, we had the window shut.

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