It was in the early stage of my eldest being thirteen, so many, many months ago, that some thing I can no longer remembered occurred with him and my beloved husband turned to me and said “We’re gonna have to start buying him black soon.”
He was, indeed, going down that dark, black wearing path.
Quite by accident, his wardrobe slowly changed from bright reds and oranges, to darker shades; a deep burgundy, navy blue, shades of grey …
Before long, he was wearing, outside of his school uniform, pyjamas or shades of grey, with the odd splash of deep, dark ‘colour’.
“I need new clothes,” he told me on the way home in the car last night.
“Mostly t-shirts,” he clarified.
I suggested he put them on his impending-birthday list, or on his letter to Santa (which he merely scoffed at me about).
“No. Can you get them for me? Please?”
I had, only the night before, offered to purchase him one of the shirts they have for sale at Parkour. They are black, with some really cool prints on them. He vehemently rejected the idea. I’m not sure if it was because it came from me or not, but he did give an emphatic “no”.
I mentioned this to him upon his request for me to purchase some upper body attire.
“Euw, no,” was the reply. “They’re black.”
“Soooo?” I enquire, as he does go around wearing very dark colours on his upper body.
“I don’t want black. I just want very, very, very dark grey.”
But not black …