Off My Game

By Sharie Derrickson

My husband and daughter have few things in common. This is for several reasons. My daughter is a teenage girl. That means she likes stuff like hair gel, the telephone, fashion accessories, and purses that match her socks. My husband has no interest in any of that, and has an intense dislike for hair gel, as I know when my daughter approaches him and says, “Dad, let me just put a little hair gel on you and update your look.”

“What do you mean, update my look? What’s wrong with how I look?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Kidding about what? I happen to like my hair the way that it is and I’m not wearing hair gel.”

“Moooommm,” my daughter yells. “Tell dad to let me try some hair gel on him.”

“Honey, let her put some hair gel on you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s funny.”

My daughter runs into the bathroom and grabs the hair gel and her arsenal of styling tools with a look of glee in her eyes that I only see when the word “mall” is mentioned.

“All right, hold still,” she says as she rubs gel into her hands. “The key is to put it at the roots so that you get a little body and then you spike it up – like this.”

She and I stand back to look at her work. “Well?” he asks as I burst out in teary-eyed laughter.

“Why are you laughing? What did you do to me?” he says as he runs to the mirror.

“You look like a troll doll,” I said, continuing to laugh. It’s true. He did look like a troll doll, but a middle-aged troll doll with a receding hairline.

“Man, I never knew your forehead was that big,” my daughter said. “Have you considered renting it out as billboard space?”

“You’re funny,” he said, trying to fix his hair in the mirror. “Now get away from me with that hair gel – hair gel is for girls,” he snapped.

“And for people with hair,” my daughter said, laughing.

For some reason, by husband is very sensitive about his hair. Anyway . . .

No, my daughter is at that stage when she and I have more in common. We like some of the same things, like shirts that don’t have food stains on them, hats without earflaps, things that smell pretty, and hair gel.

When my daughter was younger, she and my husband used to do a lot of stuff together, but then, my daughter grew up and developed an aversion to things that made her dirty, and she feels unclean unless she changes her clothes no less than four times a day. She also isn’t too keen on anything that might mess up her nail polish. She had reached that stage in her life where she and her father had less in common than they used to, and soon, she will be at that stage where she will deny knowing him at any public event. We are not quite at that stage yet. She still lets him go with her to ball games and such, but she insists that he not say anything.

“Okay dad. Don’t do anything to embarrass me.”

“Like what?”

“What do you mean, like what? Like don’t pretend to be all cool around my friends.”

“How do I pretend to be cool?”

“Well, that’s what mom does and it drives me crazy.”

“What does she do?”

“She started break dancing when she was chaperoning at activity night at school. I was mortified.”

Okay, so I like to dance. I don’t see why she gets all bent out of shape about it.

So my daughter and my husband are struggling – her for independence, and him to be a part of her life. I explain to him that it’s a normal part of adolescent behavior, but I can tell that it bothers him. So, he was very happy this past weekend when he and she found a common bond – something that they both can do together. It’s a computer game called, “Age of Empires.”

I have no desire to do video games, so I think they were both happy that it was something that didn’t involve me. No, instead, the two of them stayed holed up in my husband’s office, coming downstairs long enough to grab survival gear like food and water, and to occasionally come into the living room to talk about the computer game.

“Dad has the two computers hooked into the network, and I went into Britain and formed an army to fight the Saxons.”

For a minute, I was happy that she was learning something, like who the Saxons were, so I began to try to have a conversation with her about it.

“Oh, the Saxons. How interesting. Did you know that the Saxons were made up from people from three parts of Germany?”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Do we have any Crunch and Munch?”

I felt left out and tried to stimulate some thread of connection. “Did you know the Saxons invented Crunch and Munch?”

“Really. Cool.” She then ran out of the room. “Hey Dad, did you know that the Saxons invented Crunch and Munch?”

“Did your mother tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“She’s lying.”

I was then shut out of any conversation that involved their newfound passion. For two days, my husband and daughter plundered each other’s villages, invaded each other’s territories, and engaged in fierce battles over strategic tracts of land as I watched the History Channel to find out that even though the Saxons didn’t invent Crunch and Munch, they did invent the self-winding wristwatch and published the first daily newspaper in 1650, but my husband and daughter could have cared less. They were too busy pillaging.

I felt left out and sat in the living room seething each time I heard the trumpet sound of an invading army. I had to resort to desperate measures. Think, Sharie. Think. A stroke of genius came to me – go to things that are tried, true, and tested.

I went up stairs into the bathroom and began my ruse. “Heeeelllllp.”

“What’s wrong?” my husband yelled.

“I can’t figure out this hair gel. My hair looks awful and I can’t fix it.”

I heard my daughter grumble. “Hold on mom – I’ll be right there – I just have to fend off this Celtic attack.”

I smiled, knowing my trick worked.

“Did you know that the Celts invented hair gel?”

“Really?” my daughter asked as she styled my hair.

“Really. It was first used in 1202 as a cooking oil, but the Celts began to market it as a hair gel after an explosion at a diner, and it got in some Celt’s hair. It became a common traded commodity between them and the Saxons, as a matter of fact. I think Vidal Sassoon was the first Saxon to label it as such and sell it internationally.”

Okay, I lied, but I was back in the game. When all else fails, resort to weapons you know will work – and in this case, it was hair gel. And for just a little bit of time, she and I were our old selves – doing hair together and poking fun at her father. Precious moments. Time well spent.

“There. You look great,” she said.

“Thanks honey.”

“No problem,” giving me a hug and turning to go back into the office.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, mom.”

And then, she was gone, but for a brief moment, we connected by doing something meaningful and my heart was full.

“Hey dad,” I heard her say laughing, “I just did mom’s hair, and guess who now looks like a troll doll.”

“You’re heartless,” he said.

“Yeah, I know.”

I hate that game.

© 2006 Sharie Derrickson. Previously printed in the Thousand Islands Sun.