The nurse cooed at the creature emerging from my crowning cervix. “Ohhh, she has so much hair! Do you want me to put a mirror down here so you can see it?”
That is how the original essay began, but the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition limited me to 450 words, so I had to cut them.
I also had a few other irreverent jokes, but if I’m being honest, those lines didn’t really capture the spirit of Erma herself. And that was the whole point of the contest.
So I cut them as well and submitted a 449-word essay to the contest (I’m sure you can imagine how hard it is for me to limit my words), and GUESS WHAT? I won an Honorable Mention!
That recognition felt pretty darn good. You know, since the world is a dumpster fire, and the rejections letters are taking over my Inbox. (It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.)
Anyhow, you can read my award-winning essay on the Erma Bombeck website. I also invite you to read a more Foxy-fied version (with pictures!!!) right here. Then, tell me which one you like more—or better yet, tell me how much you love them both! Please? Pretty please? I’ll be your best friend…
An Act of Love
The nurse cooed at the creature emerging from my crowning cervix. “Ohhh, she has so much hair! Do you want me to put a mirror down here so you can see it?”
“NO,” I hissed and clenched my teeth, concentrating on not soiling myself in front of everyone, while simultaneously cursing my husband for the furry alien that was breaking my vagina. As soon as I held my beautiful baby, however, I began to care more about her tresses than I wanted to admit.
True to the nurse’s word, my newborn daughter boasted a full head of hair that only thickened as she aged. I brushed it while she nursed. Stroked it as she slept. Delighted in washing it—even when mine hadn’t seen a shower in days. Tending to her thick tresses made me feel like a mother. It became an act of love.
For years, I relished being her personal beautician, singing as I blow-dried her lustrous locks. Practicing ABCs as I detangled her chestnut strands. Laughing together as I created lopsided pigtails and zany Dr. Seuss styles.
In Kindergarten, when my daughter announced she wanted hair “short in the back and longer in front—like yours, Mommy,” I had mixed emotions. While I delighted in her admiration, she wouldn’t require my styling assistance anymore. It was her choice, however, and I needed to loosen my hold. Though my hand trembled, I squeezed her chubby fingers as the stylist lopped off her ponytail. Together we said a bittersweet goodbye to those silky strands, and she generously donated nine inches of her beautiful hair to charity.
Fortunately, her mane grew back as quickly as the height marks on our wall. For years, I created hundreds of coiffure masterpieces: complicated braids, elegant twists, and cascading curls. When my daughter decided to cut her hair again, there was no apprehension. “I’ve got this, Mom.” My big girl could handle the change on her own, and I let her, only shedding a few tears.
By the time she hit the tween years, I wasn’t allowed near her hair. Or her room. Or her, for that matter. My nose didn’t protest—despite my shampooing tips, her silky curls had morphed into a greasy mess that reeked of Eau de Garbage. I could track her down anywhere by following the stench. Still, I missed our special time together.
One afternoon, I found a baffling rat’s nest of hair in the bathroom. When questioned, my daughter sheepishly revealed a sheared patch near the nape of her neck and reluctantly admitted she needed help detangling the other knots. I stifled a gasp and for the first time in months, gingerly lifted the grimy clumps and gulped. “I think I just found Jimmy Hoffa.”
She reluctantly admitted she needed my assistance. I brought her to my hairstylist. and there were no tears or trepidation, just determination, as we tackled the problem together. Soon her hair was shiny and polished, the shorn spot only visible upon close inspection. Mercifully her head didn’t stink either. But she was still a tween, and the messy ponytails returned too quickly.
The passing years added inches to both her body and her hair. In high school, when she tentatively presented a picture of an edgy pixie cut, one I never could have braved, I exclaimed, “That would look amazing on you!” (I left out the part about how short hair is easier to de-funk.) I gave her the gentle push she needed to take the reins.
The next day, I watched expert hands transform my daughter. As her hair was cut shorter, she sat up taller. As her mane shrank, her smile grew. Chopping off her hair allowed her to express her individuality. Showcase her personality. Display her confidence. By taking charge of her hairstyle, she’s learning to embrace her growing independence. And I’m learning that letting her do so is also an act of love.
That’s the end of the essay, but because this is my blog and I do what I want, here’s another picture of my girl.
10 Responses
wonderful that you are giving her the control of her own body–in this particular instance, her hair.
Thank you. I feel it’s so important. xo
Wow. She even let you take a photo of it. My eldest won’t let me near him with a camera as he thinks I’ll post to FB. Of course, he’s right. But only because he’s so handsome. 🙂
She did indeed. I always ask permission to post them, of course. My son would not be as keen on it. xo
I read them both, and I love them both! Plus also, wish I was brave enough to rock cool-colored locks.
Thank you and thank you! And seriously, I think the closest I ever came was a warm brown burgundy color. I didn’t look nearly as cool. xo
My only quibble is the stench tracking line didn’t make it to your winning essay.
I wish I had this hair relationship with my mother. As a kid, I was droped off, with uncombed hair at the babysitters. In her culture, all girls worn a pigtail over each ear. It is not a style that flatters me at all. It feels at times, like the reason my parents took picture as a hair disaster. The very crooked home cut bangs figure in a series of photos over years. LOL
I know. That was a tough line to cut. My childhood hair experience sounds a lot more like yours than my daughter’s. I was the youngest of six so hair was not the top priority. LOL. xo
Oh Fox, you KNOW I love you! Thank you for writing this. It brought back so many memories of snarls and tangles and tears. ❤️ Cathy
My daughter, and her hair, followed a very similar journey. Snarls, tangles, grease and tears marked the era of long hair until finally, I caved and bundled her off to the salon.
Its amazing how cutting off two feet of hair seemed to also shed so much angst! She’s rocked a short bob for two years now and it has transformed her into a confident, sassy, basically fearless young woman. I adore that she doesn’t need long ultra-feminine hair to feel like a badass.