A hair stylist I am not. It’s obvious after you take one look at my out of control frizzy curls. On weekends I throw it into a puff-ball ponytail, and during the week I walk around with wet or damp hair for a good part of the morning. But this post is not about me and my bad hair. It’s about my daughter’s, and it’s all my fault. Let me preface by saying I meant to only trim her bangs. They were long and getting in her eyes, and I wanted to save the fifteen to twenty bucks I’d have to spend to take her to a professional. It’s just bangs, I thought. I can do this.
We walked upstairs to the bathroom and I pulled out some scissors. Erin, in all her wisdom was talking me through the bang cutting. “Mom,” she said. “You need to comb the bangs away from the rest of the hair.” Right. Now where was the comb? I remember seeing it downstairs next to the big-headed Barbie, so I sent Erin down to get it. In hindsight, maybe I should have experimented on the Barbie’s fake hair before snipping my daughter’s real beautiful brown hair. She returned with the comb and I set out to work. I grabbed her bangs between two fingers and cut. Easy. No problem. Until I looked at what bangs remained. They were a good 1/2 inch above her eyebrows. Erin took one look at my face and turned to look in the mirror. First she laughed. Then she cried. Then she ran downstairs and flung herself on the couch sobbing. I ran after her apologizing over and over. It was no use. I asked what I could do to make her forgive me, besides never cutting her hair again. Ice cream she said. Smart kid. I then found headbands and bobby pins and explained we could pin or put her hair back until her bangs grew back.
I also took her to the drug store to buy some head bands.
The ice cream and new head bands seemed to do the trick. She even let me take a picture to show my friend Vicky, who also cut her daughter’s hair.
To quote my friend, “She can totally rock it.”
Indeed she can. Indeed she can.