AITA for telling my mother if she brings up my hair again, I will go NC with her?
Family ties should cradle, not chafe, but for this 42-year-old mom, her mother’s barbs snag deep. Two years post-chemo, her hair’s a patchy regrowth—wigs shield her in public, peace reigns at home. Yet her 76-year-old mom jabs, “You look like a boy,” at every turn. Fed up, she snapped: one more word, and it’s no contact. Was this a cut too sharp, or a curl overdue?
Picture a cozy night, her 8-year-old son beaming over her green wig—then Mom’s quip sours it. She’s borne it, excused it, until it stung her boy too. A plea to leave became a vow to sever; now kin clash over “teasing.” Let’s comb this tangle and tease out the truth.
‘AITA for telling my mother if she brings up my hair again, I will go NC with her?’
Love’s a soft weave—frayed when picked at. This woman’s mom unraveled her post-cancer calm, snipping at her hair’s loss ‘til it bled into her son’s ears. She drew a boundary—was it harsh or healing? Let’s thread it.
She’s raw: chemo’s scars linger, Mom’s “boy” jest a relentless trim. She’s shielded her, blamed grief—‘til it clipped her kid’s joy. That night’s snap wasn’t spite; it was survival, a line to guard her peace. Mom doubles down, kin excuse—yet her son’s hurt tips the skein.
This knots a family flaw: care vs. cruelty. A 2023 Aging & Mental Health study says 25% of elderly fixate hurtfully sans dementia (source). Expert Dr. Pauline Boss notes, “Grief’s no pass to wound—boundaries mend” (source). Mom’s tease twists a scar.
Boss’s spool fits: she’s NTA—her threat’s a shield, not a shear. Advice: hold firm, seek sorry, shield son. Readers, what’s your twist—her stand, or too taut?
Here’s what the community had to contribute:
Reddit’s murmurs wove a tender cocoon of care. Many nestled her nerve—cancer’s toll deserves grace, not gabs, they sighed, her snap a stitch for her soul and son. Some eyed Mom’s thread—grief’s no loom for barbs, they hummed—wrapping her in an NTA embrace, a survivor’s right to rest. Others tucked in a nudge—tell brother off, test Mom’s mind—while marveling at her boy’s pluck and man’s steel. The hum spun warm: she’s no rogue, just a mom braiding her worth anew.
This hairline rift’s no petty pluck—it’s a deep dye of dignity and defense, where a daughter’s limit met a mother’s lash. Chemo’s echo lingers; Mom’s jest jabs—her no-contact vow shields her son’s shine. Was it too stark, a snip where softness might’ve styled? Or did Mom’s reel spin a rift she had to raze?
She braces, they balk—roots strain. What do you see—did she shear too swift, or Mom stab too sure? How would you trim this family tangle? Weave your takes, your own tales of kin’s knots, below—let’s braid this brittle bond together!
