My daughter Dylan’s hair just keeps growing and she keeps refusing to get a professional trim.
So finally, last night, while she was watching TV, I impulsively took out a pair of scissors and trimmed her hair.
Except it wasn’t really a trim exactly.
More of cut. Like 3 inches.
I never intended to chop off that much. I don’t know how it happened. Hair seems so much longer when it’s wet. I blame moving delirium and my concern over Bret Michaels’ Tony Awards injury. How is he going to find love with his nose all out of whack?!
As I looked at my handy-work, I suddenly got that pit in my stomach. The one from 9th grade when I let a hairdresser talk me into an asymmetrical cut. Or maybe it was my idea. The point is – that was the year I learned that hair grows very very slowly.
Dylan was so engrossed in her TV show that she didn’t even notice my makeover. So I said nothing. I read Dylan and Summer their books and put them to bed like any other night.
But wouldn’t Dylan wake up the next morning and notice that THREE INCHES OF HER HAIR WERE MISSING? I started really stressing. I’m no psychotherapist, but I think I was taking all my fears about moving (the quiet, no friends, being forced to garden and an inability to find a drug store when I really need candy) and redirecting my anxiety on Dylan’s hair.
I seriously had trouble sleeping.
In the morning, I practically dragged her over to the mirror and said in a very peppy voice, “Honey, look, I trimmed your hair. Do you like it?”
“WHEN did you do that?” she asked perplexed.
“While you were watching TV last night. Do you like it?”
And that was about it.
Totally no big deal. She just rolled with it. She obviously gets that laid back vibe from me.
And if you think I’m wasting time writing blog posts instead of packing, well you’re so wrong.
You’re supposed to pack your kids first. Everyone knows that.
mama bird notes:
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