Worzil Gummage vs Dame Judy Dench hair dilemma

We always have music of some description in our house. The kids like certain types of music – mostly awful rock from the eighties due to the bad influence of my husband. When I have them locked down and trapped in my moving car I try and instil some culture into their brains with a little Irish and classical music, but they tend to shout over the top of the soothing tunes until I turn it off.

Daniel, our oldest is particularly fond of eighties music and the husband has notions that he will be the one to grow up, become a rock star and let his aging parents live a life of luxury at last.
Unfortunately the teachings of his father, featuring Powerpoint presentations on the finer points of AC/DC and regular YouTube viewings of Thunderstruck, have spectacularly backfired and instead of wanting to learn to play the guitar, the boy instead just wants to grow his hair long.

Once every eight weeks or so we take the older boys along to the barbers in town. They have got the same short back and sides in that barbers since they were knee high. Daniel refused to go a few weeks ago, stating he was going to let his hair grow long from here on in to see what happened.

I spent the following weeks looking at my boy, his hair growing wild and free, sprouting up in clumps at the top, sticking out at the sides, curly in parts, poker straight at others.
I know in his head he has an idea of what he wants his hair to look like, perhaps he imagines himself like the guy on the front of Mills and Boon novels, all flowing, shimmery locks of such glossy power they make girls faint. But unfortunately, as well as a bad taste in music, my boy has inherited his father’s brand of strangely behaving hair.
My husband is probably the only man on the planet who can grow a naturally multi-coloured beard. And the hair on that man’s head is curly at the crown and poker straight at the back and sides. If he were to grow it long it would result in some manner of terribly frightening curly mullet.
A few days ago I bluffed the boy into thinking that hair grows twice as fast when it’s cut a bit and persuaded him to let me loose with a pair of electric cutters. He was rather apprehensive, and wisely so, as the last time I was let loose with the clippers he ended up looking like Dame Judy Dench.
So I set about trimming the wild locks, going at his hair with the same enthusiastic motion and vigour I display when tackling unruly hedges in my mother’s garden. The end result was a tidy hairdo that would be more fitting to an accountant than rock star.
The boy looked in the mirror and went berserk. He accused me of making him look stupid, of stripping him completely of his street cred. He said his friends would no longer want to be his friends now that he looked like Daniel O’Donnell and that I had completely ruined all chances of him ever fronting a heavy metal band.
The next day he refused to go to school. In the end we had to dig him out a woolly hat from the depths of the hot press and I had to write a note to his teacher.
Dear Ms Tracey, Daniel will be wearing a woolly hat for the foreseeable future in class as, due to a dreadful electric clippers accident, he looks like Dame Judy Dench (again) instead of Michael Hutchinson. Apologies for any inconvenience caused. Thanks! Daniel’s Mum.
It’ll grow out and he’ll be back fronting his Primary Five class heavy metal band again in no time.