When my daughter was born her hair was like spider silk. It couldn’t be combed or styled, just smoothed down in a rough dome shape. By the time she turned one, her hair wasn’t thick enough to hold even the lightest barrette. But that didn’t stop her from enjoying bread.
By two, she began to develop curly locks that melted my heart.
Alas, it must’ve been the humid spring because by summer her hair was getting slightly thicker, but wasn’t growing longer. It was growing up. With some black eyeliner and a studded leather jacket she could’ve been mistaken for a chubby prog rocker. Here she is at two and a half as she feeds the bunnies, her hair resembling spray blown off the edge of a breaking wave.
For the last few months my wife’s been telling me she needs a haircut. To me this sounded like putting a stick insect on a strict diet—there’s simply nothing less to lose. But this Monday she went in for her first-ever haircut, and was grown-up enough to realize this was a Salon Day. And boy was she pampered. From glitter in her hair to leave in conditioner, and even a certificate of her first haircut, she got the works. And bless the woman who cut and styled her hair because it went from a bouffant frozen yogurt swirl to a cutie pie pixie cut. That afternoon I took her out swinging and her new haircut fluttered in the breeze. She knew she looked good. If it takes another 3 years for her hair to reach her neck, I won’t care. Just so long as she gets to have a salon day every now and then. Girls like that.