Letting my hair down

I've been threatening to do it for months. Every morning I get sick of the power struggle. I've tried everything: bribes, threats, gentle persuasion, reverse psychology. Nothing works.

So I did it.

I chopped Goosie's hair.

Pixie short.

I'm still in shock.

Goose is overjoyed.

She's been begging me for months to cut her hair short. "I want hair like Daddy's and Little E's!" she'd plead. "You are a girl," I'd reply, "You have girl hair - like Mommy."

Now, I've never been a girly-girl myself. I don't wear much make-up. I live in blue jeans. I'm more excited about going hiking than a trip to the mall. But, I must admit, I have long had imagined a cute little girl in brown braids skipping along side me on those hikes. Doing up my daughter's hair was my one girly indulgence. Goose hated every second of it. Usually, I could only manage to get a brush half-way through her tangles. When she did allow me to put in pony-tails or braids it was only so she could imitate a favorite cartoon character's do (Uniqua, I told her, wore two curly pony tails, and Tasha wore two "knots"). As soon as the desire to make-believe passed, the pony was ripped out and the hair looked worse than when we started.

All logic told me I need to chop the hair; she wanted it, it looked terrible most of the time anyway. Still, I told myself, I wasn't ready to relinquish control. And then I knew I had to do it. This wasn't about her hair. This was about what kind of mother I was going to be. Was I going to spend my life imposing my own preferences (on trivial matters) on Goose, or was I going to give her control over her own life, respecting her choices? A hair cut isn't permanent; a bad decision in this arena only lasts a month or two. I realize she is only three, but isn't that old enough to know she'd rather not go through the torture of hair-brushing every day? Could I be big enough to let go of my little girl with braids fantasy?

I took a deep breath and weilded the scissors.





I almost cried several times during the process, but I reminded myself of all those perms I endured as a child, an imposition of my mother's will for my hair, how torturous there were: they burned my scalp, pulled my hair, and smelled to high heaven. I knew I did the right thing.

When Goose saw herself in the mirror for the first time, she grinned from ear to ear. "Now I'm LITTLE E!!!" The role she's been dying to play forever. Finally, she's got the right "do" for the part.