Laney's Hair

Pre-mommy-of-a-three-year-old girl, I thought my relationship with my daughter's hair would be one of joy. . .of braids and ponytails, pretty bows and clips. I was excited about all the cute pigtails and fun I would have with my daughter's hair. What is it about little girls' hair, anyway? She was so adorable and would be even cuter with bows in her pretty hair.

I didn't think I'd have to wait too long. When my son was born, he had a head full of thick black hair that quickly grew into a head of thick light brown hair. I could have put little choking hazards cute clips and barrettes in his hair by the time he was four months old. Laney was born with a bit of downy brown hair, but not near as much as Nicky, and it grew slowly.

Then, finally, FINALLY her hair began to grow out. First, it was her bangs. I thought I would let them grow out and just put them back. Clip went in her hair, two seconds later, little baby hands took them out again. Clip went back in, one second later, little baby hands took them out again. It was a battle of wills. I, of course, lost. Poor thing went around looking a little shaggy until I finally gave in and cut her bangs on a regular basis.

Then, last summer, her hair was just long enough to really run a brush through. Not long, just long enough. As I gently pulled the hairbrush through her hair, it felt unbelievably good. I had no idea that brushing my daughter's hair could make me feel so gooey inside.

I remembered all the times I sat in a chair as my mom brushed my own hair and braided it or put it up -- the brush tickling my scalp before it began the descent down the long length of my hair, lightly tugging my head backward. I could feel the my mother's hands gently parting my own hair and forming it into braids or putting it up in a ponytail.

Now, it was me on the other side of the chair. I was doing the brushing and running my fingers though my daughter's silky soft hair as she sat quietly in the chair. The surge of memories from the past, of me and my mother, combined with visions of the memories-to-be, of me and my daughter. The past, the future, and the now, all connected through this ritual, the brushing of hair. It felt a little weird to feel this sudden onslaught of emotions over a simple, everyday thing, but I was a little emotional. I loved brushing my daughter's hair.

That feeling lasted exactly one afternoon.

The problem is my daughter comes with a strong personality, one that isn't so fond of having her hair brushed. Actually, she hates it and carries on like a lunatic whenever she sees the brush coming toward her hair. From that blissful afternoon to the present-day, our hair-brushing ritual has degenerated into me chasing her around the house with a brush. If these walls could talk. . .

"Laney, get over here now!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Most days I am bothered to try and catch her. Often enough, I get the brush through her hair a few times while we're both on the run. What a ridiculous image. How did I end up here, again?? Maybe I get a barrette in to try and keep her long locks out of her face. She yanks them out and throws the cute little barrettes on the floor.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I don't WANT to wear these! I ALWAYS have to wear these!"

If I try to force her into submission, she shakes her head violently and musses her hair with her hands, tangling it further.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Is that me or her? We're usually screaming in unison at this point.

Our hair-brushing encounters often winds up in tears, hers, and migraines, mine. That's when other memories of me and my mother come flooding back. Her, in the mad dash of the weekday morning, yanking my hair back into a quick ponytail while tangles were brushed quickly and painfully into submission. All the while, I was yelling, "Ouch! Stop! You're pulling my hair!" My tears. Her migraines.

When I was 7 or 8, my mother took me took me to a beauty salon and spoke conspiratorially with the beautician in Japanese. When I left, I had a little pixie cut. My mother also got me a perm once, leaving me with a semi-afro, a highly unnatural look for a half-white, half-Asian girl, but that's another story for another day. I never thought I'd want to do this, but I some days I want to give my daughter her own little pixie cut and be done with it. I'll spare her the afro.

I will wait until after Christmas pictures, at least, but I don't know if I can wait until she's 7 or 8.