The end begins with a single black hair

Yesterday Lawrence told me that he had his first black hair.  Um, okay.  Is that like getting a gray hair?  Noooooo.

He wanted to have a conversation about hair that grows- you know - in the 'crutch' area.   And so I did my best to muddle through answers about how yes there would be more and no they might not be super curly and yes he could cut them if he wanted and no he shouldn't bring up the topic in lunchtime conversation. 

Okay, sure, I guess you can talk about armpit hair.  No, I can't see any hair in your armpits yet.

No, you do not need a razor for a single hair.  You don't like how long the hair is?  It makes you feel weird and unhappy?  Um, here are some safety scissors.  Oh, you would prefer that I cut the hair?  Great. 

And so I found myself trimming a pubic hair on my NINE year old last night.  I was completely weirded out and trying to see how I could have avoided the moment with someone as straightforward as Lawrence.  He saw the whole process as fairly routine, like getting his nails trimmed.

It was hard enough talking body changes with a classroom full of alternately mortified and hysterical 5th graders.  I am so not ready for adolescence with a child who has no real sense of privacy or modesty or ability to pick up on the social cues of others.  

I've got to buck up.  No way I am wussing out and leaving a book about puberty on his pillow.