My daughter had her first haircut today.
Actually, she’s had many haircuts, but this is the first time she’s had one by a licensed professional.
When she was a baby, she had a thick mop of curly hair. Yes, it was adorable, but it was also like a fishing rod reel: one minute you’re casting for Tarpon, the next you’re huddled in the corner in the fetal position with a boar bristle brush and a No-Tangle spray. It was pretty, but high maintenance.
I remember my first attempt to get it professionally cut when she was about 2. Heh. It was like the front row of a Jonas Brothers concert -- a whole lot of tears and screams and still it looked like no one has had a haircut in months. She was terrified. I was mortified. The hairdresser was fit to be tied. It was not the stuff of a scrapbook page.
After that, I vowed to just cut it myself. How hard could it be? I have cut out so many wads of gum over the years; I figured I could do a fair job. Besides, I could do it while she was sleeping, and then we’d avoid the terror that it seemed to cause.
It worked for a couple of tries. I like to think it looked like a Dorothy Hamill in the back -- and perhaps Mark Hamill in the front. (Luke, I won’t claim to be your father until you get a proper haircut.) But as she got a little older, I realized we both deserved a second chance at the hairdresser. She had reached that miraculous milestone where a homemade haircut from an amateur Mom is much scarier than a trip to the barber.
Today, she marched right in and hopped up onto the stylist’s chair. She allowed the cape to be draped across her (it was like a death shroud last time) and sat still and patiently while the nice lady trimmed her beautiful hair. She smiled at one point, “Look at me!” And everyone did. In a good way.
She got a lollipop for her brave efforts and I retired my scissors to the sewing basket.
Unless Nick Jonas comes back to Tampa, and then we’ll have to see if he’s interested in auditioning as the new on-ice version of Luke Skywalker…
-- Suburban Diva