Haircuts
The girls got haircuts on Saturday. This is a more loaded statement than it may appear, on first reading. Allow me to elaborate.
I happen to be the kind of mom who is mellow about some things — like TV on Saturday mornings, and snacks before dinner — and uptight about others, like the way my children appear in public. My pet peeves include sleeves with snot trails on the arms, fingernails packed with enough soil to support miniature chia pets, and unkempt, ratty hair.
The fact that my own hair is often fairly unkempt — ratty, even — is another blog post.
So, naturally, I’ve been combing their hair. This was not a problem when they were babies and had hardly any hair. (Lila spent her first two years of life essentially bald.) As preschoolers, their hair was so wispy and fine it took two passes of a comb and we were done.
But in recent years their hair has grown thicker, and their wills have grown stronger. Recently I realized it had become our unfortunate family tradition to fight over hair-combing, pretty much daily.
Chris suggested months ago that we simply get their hair cut. Reasonable enough. But I had, as I said, “feelings” about that. Combing my daughters’ hair — in theory, anyway — could be a moment of quiet bonding. And their hair is just so pretty. It’s the hair I always wanted when I was around their age. Of course, I didn’t have that hair myself because my mother always cut it.
I asked my mom a while back why she never let me grow my hair long. (Yes, I phrased it just that way, with the petulant, loaded “let.”) “Because you cried every time I combed it,” she said, sensibly enough. ”It wasn’t worth it.”
Finally I asked them: Haircuts, yea or nay? They instantly agreed (a rare occurrence indeed): yea. Forty-five minutes and twenty-five bucks later, they look freaking adorable, and can now comb their own hair successfully.
I don’t know what took me so long.
