I love my daughter’s hair. The soft blonde color. The spiral curls. The baby fine texture. It’s gorgeous—when it’s brushed.
The problem? She screams and runs for the hills every time she sees a brush in my hand. To actually get it combed, I have to sit on her. Literally sit on her. And still she shrieks and shrieks, acting like I’m pulling out her fingernails one by one rather than brushing out a few tangles.
This despite the fact that I use the softest brush known to mankind. And a bucket full of apple-scented detangler. And ouch-free ponytail holders.
Most of the time, I do away with brushing altogether and settle for wrestling her knotted, snarl-ridden hair into a couple of crooked pigtails. Sometimes I even leave them in for days (washing her hair is an even more traumatizing event).
I’m thinking it might be time to get it cut—something I’ve managed to put off for more than two years. I’m even wondering if I should cut it all off, directing the hair dresser to give her a kiddy-chic bob.
But it pains me to do it. Pains me, I tell you.
Why? Partly because it’s another step away from babyhood. Another step toward girlhood. But mostly because I just love those floppy pigtails.
Hold me, Internet. This one’s going to hurt.