The SJG understands blame. I've medalled in blame. I'm an eight-time international champion Blame Gamer. Spend a little time in therapy, however, 10, 15 years, and you learn that blaming others gets you nowhere. This is a lesson I'm trying to pass on to my sons, but yesterday, I hit a snag. The eldest pointed his finger at my head and went on a 10-minute rant. He's unhappy with his hair, and believes I'm the source of his ongoing disappointment. Naturally, it's all my fault. Is anything NOT my fault? You see, he inherited my baby fine thin ka-ka hair, as opposed to hubby's thick, luxurious mop. His brother, lucky boy, scored daddy's hair -- the definition of unfair. "I apologize from the bottom of my DNA," I said, before veering off, rabbinically. "But tell me, son, do people walk by and point at your hair? Do they call you a fool? Do they scorn you in public? Flog you in the town square?" He paused to reflect. Clearly, I'd triggered some heartfelt reflection. "I'm ridiculed daily," he said. "Every 15 minutes, someone walks by my desk and laughs at my hair." "I feel your pain, my son. How you have suffered. It hurts me to my very core." "You have no idea what I go through," he said. "It's been awful." Here, I took offense, I must admit. "I have no idea? Are you kidding? I've been walking around with the same pathetic baby fine thin ka-ka hair, much longer than you, my son." "And whose fault is that?" he asked, respectfully. "My mother! May she rest in peace. Who do you think gave me this sh*tty excuse for hair?"
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