Who Are These Homeys Dissing My Girl?

And, really, why do they gotta front?

Katie has beautiful hair. Being of so-called "mixed race" origin, she has inherited the tight nap of African-Americans and the curl/wave of Irish/German immigrants (plus all the other ethnic ingredients that make her, like most of us, a genetic stew.) Dark, lush, long and curly in thick mounds of ringlets that have a life of their own, her hair gives her a wild air—a mad, brilliant child. It's super cool.

And it's a bitch to manage. Jenn and I, who have our own "hair issues," were not surprised that she wanted it cut. The kids made fun of her. Granted, kids are beasts to everyone, but for children who don't fit the wafer-thin Ashley mold (i.e., the vast majority of her multi-ethnic class), any deviation from "the norm" can be punishing.

So Sunday she got a haircut. Not high and tight, but stylish, the curl and thickness still evident but kept more manageable with a little help from some "product." That night she wore a long face. "Don't you like your haircut?"

"I do, but the other kids are gonna make fun of me!"

Of course they are. Of course, the following day, they did. And she came home complaining of a "not-so-great" day. Jenn and I did our best to broaden the scope of the social disapproval aimed at her. It isn't really about her, it's about their own insecurities. Everyone gets made fun of. Jenn and I related our own childhood traumas, our fashion faux pas, the delightful sobriquettes children come up with (omitting, for obvious reasons, "fag boy," the one I endured for a few years; still nowhere near as harsh as "Eugene"), and the eventual discovery of our own inner strengths and of friends who appreciated them.

All of which went—zeeeer!—right over her head.

She'll figure it out. If only because her parents have years of experience as social misfits to draw on and develop some perspective. Too bad I can't promise her that people grow up and become less mean. Or cruel. Or petty. We just develop more sophisticated justifications for using our more sophisticated weaponry. "My bomb killed your kid? Sorry, dude, I was a thousand miles away, pressing a button. God's on my side, beeyotch."