She’s got this silky fine, superstraight, flighty hair that protests against any and all attempts at styling – and whatever her hair doesn’t actively protest, the rest of her does. I can’t get near her with a hairbrush, let alone an elastic or clip, without a NO! and little feet running the other way. (Frankly, she disdains most acts of grooming: teeth brushing is a daily struggle, and changing a poopy diaper can be akin to wrestling a wildebeest armed only with baby wipes.)
I know that I could cut her hair in to some semblance of a style (ignoring for the moment that there’s no possible way I could safely approach her with a pair of scissors). And if she had a cute little kiddie haircut, then I wouldn’t have to be horrifyingly embarrassed every time we leave the house.
And yet… I can’t do it. I can’t cut her hair, not yet. It looks like an unkempt rat’s nest, and yet somehow I’m sentimentally attached to it. This is that same hair that grew in after the dark newborn baby fuzz fell out weeks after she was born; the last bits, perhaps, of the infant she was. The ends of her hair now are the beginning, if you like, of the long, neverending strands of hair she will grow all her life. And I’m not ready to let them go yet. But I’m also not willing to battle her to the ground every morning to put in ponytails that she’ll only pull out 5 minutes later anyway.
So the next time you see a toddler who looks like Nick Nolte, understand it’s not mom being lazy. It’s mom being sentimental. And we’re all guilty of that.