Hair Today

I’m thinking of having a t-shirt made up for my daughter, but for me to wear. It would say something like: “She Won’t Let Me Comb Her Hair.”

It wouldn’t be suitable for Sundays, of course, but I think it would help with those occasional trips to the mall or the grocery store when I have to take her out in public and She Won’t Let Me Comb Her Hair.
 
Yes, I know my daughter’s hair looks like a cat has been sucking on the ends. This just wasn’t the hill I chose to die on this morning.

Depending on our degree of lateness, I can sometimes coax her to let me at least work through the worst of the tangles, but usually this means she wants to help. “Me!” she insists, taking her blue plastic comb and a hank of her own hair, and sawing at it. This in part explains where the tangles come from. Then, too, she cannot resist putting her hands in her hair. As it is being combed.

She has no less than seven different sizes of clip, barrette and ponytail holder provided by her mother and both grandmothers. And she will tolerate a small (ineffectual) clip or decorative bobby pin for a few hours on school days, but I nearly always find them in her cubby when I pick her up in the afternoon. One day last week, after school, I went looking for the pin she had worn and found it still dangling in her hair, near her chin.

A decade from now, or maybe less, when she has become as picky about her hair as she already is about her shoes, when she looks at old pictures of herself and asks why her hair was always so untidy, I will place my hands (gently) on either side of her precious head, mess it all up and say, “I do it! I Do It! IDOIT!!”

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