Kids should be bald until they’re old enough to brush their hair themselves. Eirinn gave it the old college try, refusing to sprout a follicle until the was nearly a year, but now things have gotten out of hand. What started out as a few thin, fluffy tufts has thickened and lengthened and organized itself in a plot to kill me, I’m sure of it. She’s always wanted princess hair, which is, according to a Person Of A Certain Age, long. Like, LONG long. And, unfortunately, LONG long hair doesn’t come without a battle, daily, to brush through the rat’s nests that form during sleep or play or rigorous breathing.
Eirinn is a Grade A, First Class Wimp and the effort it takes to calm her riotous hair causes nothing short of a complete and utter physical, mental and emotional breakdown on her part. And, hand to God, I do my very best to be as gentle as possible. I brush as I was taught – start at the bottom in small section, working your way up, holding the root to ease the pulling. We use industrial strength conditioner (for real; it’s salon-grade) and put it into French braids overnight to reduce the chance of knotting. But despite all this preparing and planning and strategizing, it’s a ball of dreadlocks, every morning.
What you can’t tell from this picture is that
that hair houses a family of mice and two orphan squirrels.
And I think I lost my keys in there once.
The crying. OH! the crying. By brushing her hair, as gently as humanly possible, remember, I’m obviously killing her slowly. The pain is like nothing she’s ever experienced and she might as well pass out from it all. Or at least continue to scream and cry and whine and make me feel guilty for not letting her head go completely rastafarian.
The solution to such a problem is simple – cut it all off. Shave it. Bald her, or at least shorten it with some layering. But, no. Apparently princesses don’t have short, layered hair (AHEM, Snow White and Rapunzel obviously didn’t get the memo). I had LONG long hair when I was Eirinn’s age, but not because I wanted princess hair. My dad liked my long hair. Which is hilarious because he didn’t have to a) endure the torture that is having your hair brushed, or b) do the brushing.
After weeks and months of subtle hinting (“I’m going to shave your head bald so you’ll stop whining, you wimp.”), Eirinn finally concurred last night as I was trying to sort out the mess after a bath. “Ok, mommy. Let’s cut it.” I cheered! Hurrah! The end is near, but it’s a good end, not the Mayan kind! She’s going to look so CUTE in a little bob! It’ll probably be curly again and most certainly knot-free!
But it must be a father thing because Anonymous Husband killed my buzz. Like my dad, he loves her long hair. He remembers the last time she got a haircut, which was totally cute, in the end, but completely accidental.
Sure, she’s only two, but how cute is that hair?
Her long hair really is pretty and she really does love it and who am I to force her into altering her appearance when she’s clearly happy with it? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be teaching our children? I guess as long as she’s fully aware that the pain she feels every time her hair needs brushing, and with long hair, it ALWAYS needs brushing, is a result of the length and that it can all go away if we just cut it. Not off, but shorter. With layers. And maybe double the amount of conditioner we use.
And start drinking in excess. Me, not her, because let me tell you, there is nothing fun about princess hair upkeep.