My daughter had long, gorgeous, blonde locks. They curled sweetly, and bounced, and I was totally sure that most of the wonderful things that happened to us in Central American offices of Bureaucracy happened because of Aurora’s adorability.
I have always said that hair is just hair, and that I would not fight my kids about their hair. It grows back, and considering my own adventures in hair craziness, I hardly have a leg to stand on. But when Aurora wanted a mohawk like Kestrel’s… I just couldn’t do it. I fought her on it. Bought her pretty hair accessories. Told her how pretty her hair was.
But my daughter? Is. My daughter. She kept at it, for months (which, when you’re 4 years old, is a long attention span). And finally, day before yesterday, she very seriously said to me, “Mama, cut my hair, or I will do it myself.”
There’s really nothing to be done with an ultimatum like that. I went and found the sharp scissors, and got to work.
“How do you want it, baby?”
“I want it like yours, Mama.”
Keep in mind, I have never cut hair before. I’ve shaved boy-heads before, and I keep Kestrel’s mohawk trimmed, but this is really new territory for me. I took a deep breath, reminded myself that it grows back, and started clipping. Aurora sat mostly still, and mostly didn’t move, and I only really screwed it up twice. But it turned out pretty much OK.
She’s happy with it, and that’s what matters. She can go swimming without it in her eyes, I don’t have to brush it for her all the time, she’s feeling quite independent about it. With great ceremony, she presented her hairbands and ponytails and clips to Rowan, “who still needs them.”