It's Friday morning, and Max and I are hanging out in town. We have ice-cream (yes, I let my skinny boy eat ice-cream at 10:45 a.m.), browse the kids' section in the bookstore, locate every single purple item in the toy store. Then we pass by the nail salon and Max dashes inside. It's completely packed.
Max is mesmerized by the sight of a lady who is getting tips put on her nails; the manicurist is using some sort of little drill. Max points to himself. "Max, you want that?" I ask. "YES!" he says. Go figure; I am not a tips type of girl but I end up with a seven-year-old boy who wants them.
Max walks over to an open chair and stands there, expectantly. I scoop him up and seat him.
"Is it OK if I pretend to put fake nails on him?" I ask the guy at the counter, who is staring at us.
"What?" he says.
I realize there is a bit of a language barrier. I say it again, slowly: "Can I pretend to put nails on him? Not for real?"
"What 'pretend' mean?" the man asks.
"OK, listen, I will just sit on the chair and PLAY!" I say, and before the guy can say another word I plop into a chair, grab a bottle of nail polish, open it, and make like I'm brushing some onto Max's nails.
I figure this guy will not call the cops on some crazy lady who is pretending to put nail polish on her little boy.
I figure that pretending to put polish on Max will not trigger any lasting gender identity issues.
Of course, within a minute or so Max has had enough and he jumps off the chair. He waves bye to the guy and runs out the door.
"Bye!" I say, and scoot out after him.
Wherever Max leads, I will follow. Although you can bet I will not be walking by any strip clubs with him.
istock/wragg
