Exhumation

Harry, 12, sat in a hair salon chair earlier today, idly gazing into the mirror as a dapperer version of himself emerged from under his mop. He was quiet, disliking the sensory assault of the falling hair, letting his mind skitter away into different realms as the stylist and I chatted. During a lull, he turned from the mirror to face me, with an altered, mildly tense expression.
‘I was googling hairy farmer… what’s the hairy farmer family website I found?’

Pause.

‘You’ve clearly found my old blog. I have told you about it, but quite a while ago. You’re very welcome to read it.’

The tension lines faded.
‘Yeah… I did, a bit.’

And he turned back to the mirror, and his hairdresser, and a different conversation.

The topic dropped so naturally that I haven’t asked him what bits he read, or what he thought of it. Some of his online handles pay a circuitous nod to hairy farmer, so in ways I’m surprised he’s not stumbled across it before. I have no clue if he’ll return to read more. And although I had previously considered what impact the blog might have on him should he read it, an accidental discovery via tween google-fu was not properly on my radar.

‘Young boys should never be sent to bed. They always wake up a day older, and then before you know it, they’re grown.’
JM Barrie.

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2 Responses

  1. So nice to see a new post! I occasionally wonder about the farm and your baking?

  2. Oh my! That would be a bit disconcerting, but it seems you and he both handled it well! I hope all is well at the farm – it sounds as though Harry is maturing nicely.

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