The other day I tweeted about hair. It was an important tweet, one that bears repeating. It’s something we are all going to have to face at one point or another during our parenting lives (unless you have boys, in which case consider yourself lucky).
It all started on a recent Saturday morning when I took The Kid to our usual hairdresser at our usual salon for her usual haircut. She was granted full autonomy over the terms and conditions of the cut, and once complete, we left the salon without event.
The Kid never once over the course of the entire weekend displayed any hint of dissatisfaction or stifled, seething rage with the hair style or her hair in general, but come 7:55 Monday morning just as school was about to begin, she spontaneously burst into hysterics. The haircut was the most hideous thing she’d ever seen. It was abhorrent. It was ruining her life!
Which is when I turned to Twitter. Released into the universe, my tweet about a ruinous bad haircut returned a host of wonderful, caring individuals who rallied around to support me in my time of need. Well, one really lovely individual, anyway.
That morning I’d been completely caught off guard. There had been no warning bell, no gathering dark clouds on the horizon. What was worse is I am not skilled with hair. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t even know how to braid. Hairspray was the best I had to offer, and while in the back of my mind I knew it wouldn’t work – it was a mere diversion – I was praying that magical mist could somehow convince The Kid that all was right and just again in the world of hair. It was a long shot, but it was all I had.
I sprayed and brushed, brushed and sprayed, not even really sure what I was trying to fix or how to fix it even if I had known. The kid kept wailing about her bangs, and I could see they were raised a fraction of a millimeter on one side, but I didn’t quite comprehend the problem. What, exactly, was the grave atrocity that had befallen her?
Then I recalled the hairdresser’s parting words to me. That day in the salon she had tried to warn me. She had tried to help. But I’d so cavalierly cast her advice aside. Silently snickering at her concern for the hair styling needs of an 11-year-old, I’d disregarded her instructions. How could I have been so foolish? How could I not have listened?
And, now, approximately two minutes before the start of school, I needed to know. I had to recall her words. What was it I had to do? Wet the bangs? Yes, that was it! Wet them and blow them dry to achieve bang perfection.
But we had no time! No time for wetting and blowing, straightening and extending – pulling each strand to its fullest length so as not to expose an excess of white flesh underneath.
With blow dryer in one hand and hairspray in another, I heard the school bell toll.
Again, Uncensored Mama, was there for me.
To ONLY wearing dresses to NEVER wearing dresses to ONLY wearing short shorts to NEVER wearing short shorts to ONLY wearing sweat pants to NEVER wearing sweat pants.
That’s when Uncensored Mama said:
Yay! I love winning.
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