Katie is in that in between stage.
Ladies (and maybe some gentlemen too), you all know what I'm talking about. That stage of hair grow-out that is most frustrating of all: the bang grow-out.
Last month right after school started, Katie had asked me to "please, please, please mommy - cut my bangs!"
And so I did.
Although she had been growing them out for quite some time (they were almost past her nose), I had been growing weary (tired, bored, frustrated) with the constant braiding, head-banding, and making them disappear with the magic of a clippie process that we had to go through each and every morning. In short, it wore me out.
Nobody ever mentions the difficulty of hair control when talking about raising daughters. Outside the random ad for Johnson & Johnson's No More Tangles, a product I used liberally as a child myself, if only for the mere joy of pretending I was one of those Barbie heads whose hair you could style in a million different ways. I'd spend hours in the bathroom, spraying that stuff on my hair and angling my mother's hand held mirror just so - so that I could see the back of my head...
Where was I?
Oh yes, the No More Tangles. I should have known by the way that this stuff flies off the shelves at Target, that it is a popular item - and not just because little girls like to stare at themselves in the mirror or inhale it's ultra fruity scent. I should have known that with a little more patience on my part, we could be past this awkward grow-out stage of bangs that we find ourselves in again and on to the fun and exciting part where your hair actually does what you want it to do.
Oh, who am I kidding?
The sooner Katie learns that her hair will never be just like that Barbie's head on TV, the better. Her sixth birthday is just around the corner and what better time than to have all your hopes and dreams shattered? I mean, after all, nobody can have perfect hair. Not even you, daughter.
But try explaining any of this to her. It's about as effective as trying to run from a mad rhino.
This morning, while she and I were getting ready for the day, she became...irate. She pulled at her hair and whacked her brush on the bathroom counter. She stomped about and stuck her lower lip out farther than I thought possible. It was a no-good-very-bad-horrible-morning.
In a nutshell...she was pissed.
"You have two options honey," I said to her as calmly as I could, for I did not want to add fuel to the fire raging and to be honest, she was scaring me a little with her Linda Blair-type attitude.
"You can either let me help you get your bangs up and out of your face, or we can cut them again so that they're not in your eyes."
"Noooooooooo," was all she said before running into her room and burying her face in her pillow.
I quickly scanned the room for any preschool-sized scissors intended for craft projects and upon finding none, left her alone to calm down. A few minutes later, she was back. "Mom, why can't I just cut them little?" She said holding her hand up to her forehead in an effort to show me just how short her bangs could be.
I think I may have prayed (and I'm not a praying woman) to the gods of reason at that point.
"Katie, we can either trim them up, or pin them up. Those are your options."
Clearly, she was not amused and stomped back into her room.
I'm hiding all sharp objects.
And praying to the gods of please-don't-let-my-daughter-cut-her-own-hair.