Pretty Hairy

If you have read any stories here on my blog, you’ve probably guessed I have a thing about my hair.

Not at all happy with what genes or whatever gave me in that department.

But my daughter’s hair? Gorgeous. Her shoulder-length light brown hair is streaked with caramel and golden highlights. There are some auburny-strands thrown in there too. No stylist has ever been able to replicate the look on your’s truly. So, needless to say, when it comes to hair, I live quite vicariously through my six-year-old.

I have a case of hair envy.

There is a moderate wave to her light brunette locks, but it is mostly straight. It will perk up in the summer humidity. Mine over-perks and becomes a frizzy, frazzled mess especially at my forehead. My daughter has two cowlicks that sit on her forehead, flanking her widow’s peak, making her hairline create the effect of a heart shape. Add in her rosy and chubby cheeks and her pointy-ish chin and yes, it is a heart. Just another sweet loveable thing about her.

I once had that widow’s peak, too. But on my face it made me look and feel a bit like Eddie Munster.

I realize vampires are pretty cool now, especially teenage ones. And they all have great hair. But back then, back when I was an impressionable young thing who wanted blonde straight hair, I hated my widow’s peak and plucked the sucker out. Hair by hair.

Let me just say, that decision has had repercussions like you wouldn’t believe. Hindsight is 20-20. If I knew then what I know now and all that.

Almost everyday I now need to pluck the hairs that continue to grow back where the widow’s peak once was. And when they come in, of course they are no longer brown. Oh no. Those little suckers, that incidentally grow an inch overnight, are white. If I miss a day, I end up looking like a petrified vampire skunk.

Anyway back to my daughter’s beautiful tresses. Headbands and other pretty hair accessories are her friend. She looks adorable in those elastic headwraps as well. Up dos or “down hair” as she likes to call it, it doesn’t matter. Her hair is great. There is no need to blow dry it after a bath. No, her hair, when she doesn’t scream bloody murder when I try to brush it out, will become soft and silky and stay that way until it’s washed again. On occasion, when it’s longer, the Knot Fairy will come and leave her mark — little villages of people could live in the knots in my daughter’s hair. Those are the ONLY times I don’t have hair envy.

Sometimes I think my children believe I was never a kid, only their mom and I must have just appeared on this earth as a grown-up. I say this because sometimes when I try to give them advice, they look at me blankly like, yeah, she doesn’t have a clue.

I may not on many things, but on one thing I do.


So when my daughter asked to get bangs, the answer was a quick and emphatic “over my dead body!”

Okay, not really that dramatic, but I was pretty adamant that bangs were not to rear their ugly head on my beautiful daughter’s beautiful hair.

Now before you think I am some kind of anti-bangs activist, let me remind you of two very important things: widow’s peak and cowlicks. (Okay it’s actually three since there are two cowlicks on her head.)

Both of these hair curses were bestowed upon me before I so graciously did the same to my daughter. So I have that experience to draw from.

When I was young, I too wanted bangs and dammit, I got them. I cut them myself, nice and short not for one nanosecond thinking that the cowlick would be an issue.

Boy was I wrong.

No, my bangs did not lie flat on my forehead like my best friend’s bangs did. Nor did they feather oh-so-slightly like those of my Charlie’s Angel idol Jaclyn Smith.

My crazy cowlick made one side of them turn the opposite way of the other. And the widow’s peak made my forehead look as if someone had placed there a fancy letter M made out of hair.

No matter if my hair was parted in the middle or the side, the bangs had a mind of their own. And I felt like an awkward pre-teenage freak. Since my ears were um, large, a headband to hold them back was out of the question.

And forget about them when it rained or any day in the summer when the humidity levels were above 50%. And at the beach? Two separate pieces of hair that looked like dark brown Cheese Doodles flanked my forehead.

Good times.

So now you know bangs are not a good for me and more than likely my offspring as well. (My son has a whopper of a cowlick on his head, too.)

But like many things that are not good for me, I still find myself drawn to them. I head to my medicine cabinet for the hair cutting scissors and the next thing I know “snip” and the bangs have reappeared. Only now I am much older and much wiser, and have watched stylists cut many a customer’s bangs.

So mine are side swept and snipped on the vertical as well and are long enough to tuck behind my ear or be pinned up by a barette. And each time I cut, I swear I’ll never do it again.

I just can’t leave well enough alone.

But I can tell my daughter that no way will she have bangs.

So imagine my surprise at Christmastime when I was brushing her hair into a ponytail for her ballet class and I realized there was something askew. Missing hair. The hair that should have been right on her shoulder now rested on her nose.

“Did you cut your beautiful hair?” I screeched.

My daughter just smiled at me and said “No.”

Not much I could do. Let her learn her own lessons just like I obviously hadn’t learned mine.

She never did budge and tell me that she’d cut the bangs.

But a week later when they were falling the wrong way and annoying the heck out of her, I skipped the I-told-you-so spiel and clipped them back.

“Do you like your new bangs?” I asked her.

She just shook her head no.


Yesterday, I was looking for my old hairdryer that I remembered stashing in the kids’ bathroom vanity. It’s seldomy used due to the fact that it is upstairs and the kids would much rather brush their teeth crammed together in the tiny guest bathroom downstairs.

In any case here is what I found in the upstairs bathroom vanity.

I love that girl.


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