I have blindingly clear memories of being seven years old. I know it was 15 20 25 years ago GOD WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME I’M OLD but it matters not: You experience pain of the magnitude I experienced and you remember.
Scraped knees paled in comparison. The time I got my five-year-old index finger trapped in the checkout belt at the grocery store? Couldn’t touch it. Because nothing, and I mean nothing, measured up to the searing agony of having my long hair brushed by my mother. The pulling. The tangle-trapped combs. It was…horrific. So horrific, in fact, that I swore up and down, in between sobs and threats of running away from home (forever and ever) (oh, and she would never find me) (also, she’d be SO SORRY), that I would never inflict such pain on my own little girl when I was a mother.
Yeah. So about that.
It’s not like it’s my fault. I would have truly cut it a long time ago, or at least taken her for more than the occasional split-end trimming, but nooooo. Adam is adamant that His Little Girl will have long hair, like All Little Girls Have, because that is what you are supposed to do when You Have a Little Girl. I argue. I make points and counterpoints. I reason. But it’s like logic won’t touch him, which is particularly stupefying when you consider that part of Adam’s double major in college was philosophy.
Then I went to BlogHer. And Adam and Aura had four long, tangle-drenched, tantrum-laced days alone.
We have a haircut appointment for later this week. When I actually take time to feel something other than smarmy satisfaction, I realize that I will miss the long ponytail.
But somehow we’ll all survive. Plus, I really don’t want to be the mother of a three-year-old runaway. They really look down upon you in moms’ groups for that.