The Long and The Short of it

Until I was old enough to make my own decisions about these things, my Mom forced me to have short hair. Primarily because she likes short hair - it's neater, nicer, cleaner, whatever. Presumably it was also because it would (theoretically) be easier for me to take care of it. So I had short hair for my entire childhood - everything from the fabulous 70's bowl haircut to the short at the back, longer on the top style popular in the 80's, to just plain embarassingly short. I hated having short hair. (I also hated that she made me put giant pink bows in it, but that's another post.) It was particularly embarassing when my Mom and I would go out and she would get complimented on "what a beautiful boy" she had. (At that stage the artists known as my big boobies were not born yet.) However, my attempts to grow my own hair out were spectacular failures - you know that horrible 'growing it out' stage? Well, I never got there because I would be dragged to the hairdresser to cut it short again.

Then I grew up, and made my own choices. By the time I was in college I had hair down to the middle of my back. Since then, I've grown it super long, cut it super short (a la Gwyneth Paltrow in 'Sliding Doors'), and am now growing it out again and so on and so forth. It's been every colour in the rainbow (except maybe blue), and the BEST part about being both female and hormonal is just how often you can change your hair to suit yourself.

Last week DD2 decided (rightly so) that she needed a haircut. Given my history, I've pretty much encouraged the girls to have long hair. Imagine my horror when she said she wanted a "SUPER short" haircut. The very thing I fought against for years and years- my child wants desperately. Now, this may be because brushing her gorgeous long hair is sheer torture for us, her, and the neighbours enduring her screaming....but then maybe it's her first act of rebellion. In any case I couldn't really face this, so DH took her to get it done. I spent the day a little worried about what I might come home to - a Number 1 all over? A mullet? A pint-sized Gwyneth Paltrow? She came home...looking so goddamn adorable, I haven't stopped lovin' all over her since. It suits her very well, it's easy to brush, and it's still long enough to tuck behind her ears. Nobody could ever mistake her for a boy (even though her boobies are years away, too.)

End of the story? The neighbours have dropped their noise complaints against us, and the 'save the cats from torture' people have stopped picketing in our front yard. Hallelujah!