The Boy is a bit of a bath refuser, prefering to fester as is the wont of nine year old boys the world over, I’m sure, but we manage to convince him to have one a couple of times a week by means of bribery and/or threats, and he hasn’t disappeared under his own body weight in grime yet so it seems to suffice.
He’s off to Cub Camp tonight until Sunday, so I have told him he needs a bath this morning as there’s very little chance he’ll be bathing, or even washing, at the weekend. He had done his usual thing of getting out of bed and getting dressed immediately (we have a ‘no tv until you’re ready for school’ rule that he takes to mean ‘if I’m ready by 7.15 I can have an hour and a half of Ben 10’. He’s an evil genius), so you can just imagine the grunts and sighs that ensued when I told him to get in the bath.
I told him to be quick about it, but to do a good job, and gave him the shampoo and reminded him to do his hair.
Oh, his hair. He’s rocking a kind of seventies shag look at the moment. He won’t let me cut it, or let me take him to the barbers, he says he wants Rock Star hair. It’s more Kevin Keegan than Jon Bon Jovi, but he loves it. When it’s washed and combed it’s halfway presentable, but when he’s gone a few days between washings it looks a little bit like he’s stuck his tongue in a plug socket.
Anyway, so he spent five minutes in the bath (I did see him in there so his body was washed, or at least wetted) before coming down, dressed and with dry hair.
I counted to ten under my breath and said, ‘please go back up and wash your hair’.
‘You never said I had to wash my hair!’ he wailed, and huffed and stomped back upstairs.
I followed him up to find him standing fully dressed at the sink, sprinkling water in his hair.
‘What? ‘ he said, ‘it’s as good as washing it’.