We Interrupt This Programming for an Intervention

 I’m starting to get some followers, so: Hi! 

If you stopped by last week, you know I’m going to do some posts on the expectations of wives from the 50s and what we have gained, and perhaps lost, since that time.  Good, Bad and Hilarious. 

However, two days ago, a big milestone in my life, happened.  And I kinda need some family support on it.  So, what better way to talk/commiserate about issues, than my personal blog with my virtual family? 

For a great many months, my husband has been pleading with me to take our youngest daughter to get her hair cut.  I remember Jackson’s first cut, my oldest.  He squirmed in my arms, covering me with hair.  We spiked it up with some gel.  Clearly, this was the wrong way to go as he now scoffs at any coiffing and likes to comb it straight forward with his comb after I’ve left the bathroom from making him look like a gentleman. 

Emma, the middle child, received her first haircut only after I was forced.  Two years ago, she was hanging out very quietly and I took a quick shower.  When I emerged, sans corrective vision, she looked…different.  I peered closely and noticed that she was *missing* an important part of her hair.  Specifically, the entire right section and a tuft from the bangs.  She stared back in utter shock that I was beginning to dance around and frantically paw for my glasses to inspect further.  What exactly was the big deal? 

After a frantic call to my hairdresser, she “fixed” it as best she could until it grew out.  For the purpose of wrapping that story up with a bow: I only found the hair a day later, under the dining room table with the scissors neatly set on top.

And so, my baby, my litle girl.  She has grown  long, glorious hair and loves to play with it.  Bows, headbands, ponies.  She loves it all.  But, it’s difficult after the bath, in the morning, when she wants it off of her neck.  As we begin to get closer to high temperatures, the pressure from Dad was starting to drain me.

I saw my hairdresser last week and blurted out; “Wanna do my baby’s hair?”  I figured if I did a drive-by acknowledgement, I could fain stupidity later if I backed out.  We made an appointment for all three but I secretly reserved the right to tuck Lilli into my backpack and refuse services.  I’d run, if need be.

I, immediately, went to my husband with a puffed up sense of self.  “I made an appointment for haircuts – for all three.”  He allowed one eyeball to drift from his paperwork to acknowledge me.  He does this on purpose, for fear that a full reaction will cause me to rebel.

That night his sing-song voice cries out: “Lilli, are you ready to get your hair cut?”  If I could grab words from the hair and stuff them back into his mouth and require him to swallow them back up, eliminating them from ever being said, I would have done it.  You can’t tell her.  Then we will be required to do it!  I can’t break her heart!

And so she declared: “I want to look like Emma.”

And so she does:

 

 I didn’t cry until we were in the car and driving away from that place.  Every milestone of them growing is evidence of the fact that we will not always be here, safe in eachother’s arms.  They will grow up and be responsible for themselves, and that is why we must work so hard today.

I had a little ache in my throat when I uploaded the pictures, and as I sit here with the little curl twirled around my finger, I know that I don’t really have any babies left. 

Advertisement