We knew this day was bound to come. In fact, I’m just glad she didn’t MY hair while I slept. Although I’m not saying that isn’t probable in the near future.
We were walking to school last week, and I was regarding her angelic face with fondness when I noticed something looked different.
“Is her hair layered?” I wondered. I knew it wasn’t done under my supervision but my parents had recently taken her for the weekend and this is precisely the sort of thing they like to do. It’s one of the small ways the wrest for control of my children. Last year, they decided Seconda should be wearing a bob and returned her to me with 2 inches shorn off her hair. I was just about to call my mom and read her the riot act when I saw that the haircut was way too ragged, way too wild to be my father’s handiwork.
“Sec, did you cut your hair?”
The great thing about 3 year-olds is that even when they lie compulsively, they still don’t do it well. She gave me a wide-eyed, faux-innocent look that could only mean one thing.
“Mommy won’t be mad, honey,” I bait her, “Just tell Mommy the truth.”
“I HAD to cut my hair Mommy,” she said, “It was too long long long!”
“When did you do it?” I asked.
“When I was going to sleep,” she replied.
Of course. Bedtime is the perfect opportunity to experiment with new, verboten hobbies. When ELSE would one try to cut one’s own hair?
I told her that I completely understood where she was coming from, but that from now on, she’d have to ask me and we’d find her a suitable doll to practice her shearing on. Because, honestly, she didn’t do a bad job. She may very well have a gift here. The next Vidal Sassoon. And I’ve always wanted a stylist in the family.
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