Whose Hair is it Anyway?

Three nine-year-old girls saved me today–my own little band of wingmen. Why? Because I had a huge fight with my son about the haircut I "made" him get over the weekend. All morning he alternated between fury at me for trying to "control his body" and falling across the couch to moans of "I'm not going to school for a week. There's nothing you can do to make me go!"

Somehow I got him into the car—where I heard more complaining about what a horrible mother I am and how ugly he was with his new h...