Daughter A. has never had a haircut, even thought she is three-and-a-half. She wasn’t quite as bald as our firstborn, whose photos we could undoubtedly have used to raise money for childhood leukemia, but her hair was quite sparse. However, it grew in fairly even. And it had those cute little baby waves that disappear if you cut them off.
So I’ve just let it grow. It’s finally past her shoulders and we’re getting to do fun things like put it in a ponytail.
On Saturday, she apparently got quite the knot in her hair. It was her own fault, I’m sure. After all, she habitually twists her hair, plus she puts it in her mouth. That combo is sure to cause a few tangle disasters.
But I, The Mama, always take the time to gently comb them out.
I do not cut them out.
Do you see where this is going?
On Saturday, I did not see the knot. My dearly beloved did. And he’s getting quite handy with the tools around here, so he did the manly thing and grabbed the scissors and whacked that knot right out of her hair.
I was slightly heartbroken. After all, does this count as a first haircut? And, if so, did I miss it? And was I supposed to save the lock?
I was aghast! I insisted that all future knots be referred to me for immediate attention.
And this morning, when I was putting her hair up in a ponytail, there was a suspiciously short section that stuck straight out into the air…
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