Lately I’ve been feeling like my writing is a quarter-full jar of peanut butter and all the places I need to put words are like pieces of toast. I have too much toast, you guys. I’m spread too thin. But in the meantime, I keep sticking the knife back in and scraping the sides, hoping that there will be just enough for one more meal.
All of that is to say that I am leaning heavily, therefore, on my old standby insta-post solution: Here we go, pictures, here we go! (CLAP! CLAP!):
Saturday Rosie got her very first haircut. After many a hem and haw about “I should cut it! I can’t cut it! How can I cut it? I should cut it. But no! But ugh! But waaaah!” I finally just decided to get over myself and make an appointment.
She, of course, thought it was fantastic, and had in fact been telling me for weeks, “Mama, I need a shortcut.” Her mama, however, needed to go by baby steps. “Just a little off the bottom. But not too much! You know, a little trim! And maybe … try to keep the shape? Like how it grew in naturally? And also maybe—”
Meanwhile, Rosie had scaled the chair solo and settled right in, like she’d had 65 haircuts and also maybe a brow wax or three.
Once the hairstylist was done, she dried Rosie’s hair with a hairdryer, which up to that point I thought surely caused instant death. Or at least, that’s how Rosie always reacts to the suggestion at home. But nope. No big, Moms. Bring on the hair drying! With the loudness! And the heat! And the sitting still!
Her hair was so sleek and shiny and smooth when it was dry, I wanted to rub it against my face. She was like a Pantene commercial, swinging it this way and that. Oooh la la! I could tell she was feeling it.
Aaaaand then the hairstylist decided to keep going and add a little side braid action. And … hairspray. And … a tiny hot pink banana clip. But whatever! It was finished. The scraggly bits were gone. The very first hairs to ever grow in to her tiny head lay on the floor in a pile of salon chum. But I did not sob, no! I was steadfast in my non-freakoutedness, raging pregnancy hormones be damned. I think that may have been the secret purpose of the ridiculous-looking banana clip. That hairstylist, she’s like a Jedi master with the understanding of human nature. Because she knows that somehow, unexplainably, hairs cut in a straight line = babies transformed into little girls, even when they’re already 3 and some change. Even when they’ve really been little big girls for a good long time.
After we paid and picked a lollipop and said our goodbyes, we headed back to the car—me, my boy and my trim-tressed, smooth-locked, grown up girl.
But her hair flapped behind her with wild abandon as she ran, just exactly as it always did before.