The Family Room

Punctuated Equilibrium

Stephen Jay Gould theorized that rather than Darwin's idea of a slow, gradual process, evolution is actually characterized by periods of inertia, followed by (relatively) sudden bursts of intense activity. He called it "punctuated equilibrium." When I look at my son, at the ways that his mind and body continue to grow, it makes a kind of intuitive sense.

It's sort of like this: blahblahblahblah [START TO READ] blahblahblah [GROW AN INCH IN LIKE A DAY] blahblahblah ALL OF A SUDDEN DECIDE HAIRCUTS ARE OKAY. And so on.

Of course I know it's not really sudden activity: all the gears have been in motion, and lots of things are happening, above and below the surface, before we see that emerging skill.

Let's consider the haircut.

A while back, I started chronicling Isaac's haircut experiences because, like many kids on the spectrum (as well as some canny adults), having a very large and strange person repeatedly lunge at you with scissors is terrifying.

Add in the surprise and sensory impact of being sprayed with water, the snick-snick of the scissors near your head, the itchy sensation of hair falling on your neck and down your shirt, and it's pretty intolerable.

So we went through a long period of haircut rejection, and the poor lady at the kids' barber shop did the best she could with a writhing, screaming charge.

We tried social stories, and weaving haircut play into Isaac's therapy sessions. We tried waiting it out in front of the barber shop, while kids filed calmly in around us. We tried trimming him at home (Child Protective Services, Style Division, nearly paid a visit). We tried diversions (videos, books, cameras, whatever). Ultimately, we just gutted it out.

Until this summer.

Rather than waiting until haircut time to broach the subject, we just started talking about hair every so often: about how Daddy needed a haircut, about how mommy was going to get her hair cut, about how, in a few weeks time, he'd need one too.

"No haircut," he'd remind us.

And then, suddenly, he decided he was ready. "I want a quiet, soft haircut," he told me the other day. "Not a loud, hard haircut."

"Okay, Isaac," I answered. "When we get there, you can tell the lady what you want."

And he did, in barely a whisper, after I prompted him. This time involved no squirming, no tears, no drama. He chose his chair, he let the lady put a bib on him, he sat and allowed his hair to be cut.

So my suggestion, for whatever it's worth: PECS, social stories, they're a starting point. But we've found that just remembering to talk about things, even if we're not sure how much he's taking in, has made such a difference.

Sometimes it's so gradual that it doesn't even feel like progress. And then there's this punctuation, and then, for a while, lovely, lovely equilibrium.

In which someone decides he's finally ready

You know the sound your computer makes when it's stuck? Sort of a low laborious whir? That's how my brain feels tonight as BlogHer08 comes to a close. So please forgive me for my slow processing while I look for the appropriate distraction. In Drama Mama's charming turn of phrase, "Shiny! Look over here!"

Kristen and Vicki and went home late enough today to be able to come by with Jordan for a quick bite this morning. Afterwards, I took them to the train and Isaac and I went for a haircut. It's been a long time coming: he'd made the progression from George Harrison to sort of mid-Beck.

I wasn't sure what to expect. The last time J. tried to take him in, it was well over an hour of frantic wailing until he finally gave up. We've been talking about haircuts a bit lately; not quite as social story but as offhanded remark. "Isaac, your hair is huuuge!" we'd say, and he'd answer, "No! No haircut!" Okay, I'd think. No luck, but at least the abstract associations are coming along.

This time, I waited until we were about a block away before I mentioned the idea. He was not amused. But I parked, and we sat for a while, until suddenly he decided he was ready. And he walked right in.

Thus, about a half hour later, I was in possession of one newly-barbered boy. I wish I could tell you what made the difference this time, but I suspect it was a slow build-up to the idea, helped by the fact that I didn't push. But I think the real reason is that Isaac decided he was ready. He's is more and more interested in making his own decisions these days.

To celebrate, we went for pizza.

Social stories gone wrong

[Scene: ISAAC is in the bath, happily playing while MOMMY shampoos, then combs his hair, hoping against hope that she will be able to trim the TERRIFYINGLY MUPPET-LIKE MOP that is sprouting in all directions.]

Mommy: Kiddo, you really need a haircut.
Isaac: No! No haircut! I don't want a haircut!
Mommy: Well, we're going to have to go pretty soon.
Isaac: No! I want to get the scissors and cut Mommy's hair!

Is there such a thing as too much empowerment?

Regular Boy Haircut

It's common for kids with sensory integration or autism spectrum issues to be afraid of haircuts. When you think about it, it's a pretty rational fear--a stranger straps you into a chair, wets your head, comes at you with scissors--but for kids on the spectrum even the sound of those scissors (or God forbid the electric trimmer) can send them over the edge into a flailing, wailing meltdown.

Our local shop is tricked out with toys, lollipops, even a Thomas train table to soothe the reluctant guest. The first time I brought Isaac he was about a year old, and the Russian woman at the front took a look at him, then me, and asked: "You want regular boy haircut?" Honestly, I had never even thought about it. What are the options, I wondered? Mohawk? Mullet? Bowl cut? "Sure," I answered. "Regular boy haircut." We went home in one piece: he with a new toy train, me with a slightly damp envelope containing a few wisps of his baby hair to keep as a memento.

Isaac withstood the first few haircuts pretty well. He let himself be distracted by one or two of the toys and didn't seem to mind the process much. Then, sometime around his second birthday, I brought him in but wasn't able to stop the haircutter before she spritzed him with water. It was all downhill from there: screaming, crying, hitting, falling to the floor--if you're reading this, you've probably been there. The woman did the best she could with a living, breathing, screaming target. He went home that day unhurt, but with puffy eyes and a cut that made him look a little like Edward Scissorhands on a bad hair day. I left a ridiculous tip.

The next few were similarly awful, so much so that at one point he'd start to cry whenever we drove down that particular block. So without really meaning to, we would stretch out the time between haircuts until he started to look like Elvis junior: at which point we would break down and bring him in again (although I'm telling you: I was sorely tempted to try barrettes). He had to be cut standing at the train table, with his hair dry, no smock, and at least one adult holding him at all times. We asked our ABA providers for ideas, and they suggested we try a social story about haircuts, and weave it in with some pretend play. It was slow at first: he resisted it and didn't seem to want to play haircut any more than he wanted to get one. But we persisted, and started to notice that the next time was easier (i.e., crying, but no flailing and hitting) and the next time, easier still (added bonus: the haircuts got better too). We would reinforce it by casually saying "Isaac, you really need a haircut" while ruffling his hair. Sometimes he'd disagree, saying "No haircut! Haircut's all done!"

Then about a week ago, Isaac was taking a walk with Beata, his nanny, and the wind was blowing his hair into his face. He looked up at her and announced "I need a haircut!" So Jesse took him a few days later. Isaac still cried, but it was bearable. He later informed us that he wanted another one. We didn't oblige, but at least we know we have the option for next time.