No matter where we go, the hairdressers always manage to talk her out of the haircut she wants. They say things like “Oh but you’re a girl! This is a boy’s haircut!” and “How about I cut it to here then you can tell me if you like it like that” and, “You don’t really want this do you? Don’t you like this better?”
And the poor thing, she’s so polite, so she just smiles and nods and lets herself get talked around, even though as soon as we leave she’s tugging on my hem telling me she wanted it shorter than that and how it’s “a lovely haircut but it looks a bit funny on my head”.
Last night she said to me, “Mummy, my hair is getting berry long. May I please have a haircut?”
How could I say no to that, right? So I told her we could go tomorrow, playing over in my head what I would say and how to best stamp out the hesitation that was sure to come. Then she said to me, “But I want you to do it.”
As a teenager I’d given myself many a bathroom ‘do, from layers to reverse mullet, yes, even a “scene” mullet once or twice (we all make mistakes), and nobody could ever tell I’d done it myself. So I threw caution to the wind and popped her in her sister’s high chair, took out the scissors and clips, and set to work.
After that experience I have the highest level of respect for hairdressers who have to shear the heads of fidgety kids. My back ached, my knuckle was bleeding (apparently “don’t move your head” means “shake your head all about” in kid speak), and I got hair everywhere, but when she looked in the mirror her face was priceless.
"Oh! Oh my god! It’s my boy’s haircut!” she exclaimed with glee. “I love it! It’s berry lovely. Oh I look so awesome!”
That you do, little one. If you’re happy, I’m happy.