I will save this golden ringlet for all eternity.
I have been contemplating trimming her hair for a while. ... A long while. But I could never bring myself to actually do it. I can't really explain why, but the thought of cutting her hair was so overwhelming to me and always put knots in my stomach. I knew it needed to happen sooner or later (and, quite frankly, probably sooner rather than later), but kept pushing it off, telling myself it just wasn't the right time. But Squirt's hair has been growing out very unevenly - she had a shorter layer of soft, golden ringlets that fell just at her shoulders, but a longer layer in the back that was straight, always tangly, and fell almost to her waist. She never ever ever (ever ever) let me brush out her hair or "do" anything with it, so it was always a crazy, tangled mess (which, to be honest, I absolutely adored). But she always looked scruffy, even on the rare times her hair was actually brushed out. So, I decided (months ago) I would trim that longer layer to better line up with her shorter layer - it would cut off the most tangly bit and give her more comfort, it would help her hair thicken up and grow out more evenly, and maybe it would even help her sleep better (she often slept on and then pulled her long hair in the middle of the night, which always woke her up). But I figured I'd wait for the "right" time. We could talk with her, build it up, make it a fun experience (and take thousands of pictures!).
Last night, however, the opportunity arose, and I knew I had to jump on it! Shortly before bed, she walked up to me holding a comb, her detangling spray, and a pony tail holder and told me to give her a pony tail. I'm sure my jaw literally dropped - this has never happened. So I plopped her down, drenched her hair in orange-scented detangler (she had a lot of tangles!), combed it out, and pulled it into a pony. That helped pull her short, curly layer straight, which I used as a guide to *gulp* chop off the long layer. There! Done! Just like that. I held the ringlet tightly in my hand, letting the finality of it sink in - I just gave my baby girl her first haircut. I tryied to trim and even out the ends, but Squirt was ready to move on to bigger and better things, so I'll have to come back to it later. She saw that I was holding something in my hand and asked to see it, so I showed her. "My ponytail!!! Mom!!! That goes on my head! Put it back!" (Oh my gosh, what did I do?!...) But I explained that I had given her a trim to make her hair shorter like mine and that this was what I had cut off. I assured her, I'd save it forever ("...and ever?" she asked. Yes.), then gave her a new ponytail. She insisted that it was now her turn to give me a trim and came at me with the scissors! I narrowly escaped with my locks intact, but only with the compromise that she brush out my hair (complete with copious sprays of that almost cloyingly orange detangler).
After the cut, I think I realized why - or at least one of the biggest reasons why - cutting her hair was such a big, emotional deal for me. It means she's growing up. She's not my baby anymore, not really. With that shaggy mane tamed somewhat, she looked so grown up. I saw in that face the woman she will become, and it made my heart ache. It seems like just yesterday I was marveling at her tiny head full of soft, dark, ashen hair, just moments ago I watched her dark baby hair transform into impossibly fine stands of pure gold. Now I'm suddenly the mother of a shaggy-haired toddler. When did that happen? Shortly after her haircut, as I wandered the house almost in a daze realizing how much she has grown up, and how quickly she will truly grow up, I walked in to the bedroom to find her like this:
Slow down, Squirt! Don't grow up so fast!
After the haircut, last night was rough. Bedtime has always been my absolute least favorite time of day. Squirt has always been a horrible sleeper, and trying to get her down for the evening has always been what I consider a novel form of torture. Lately, she just doesn't want to stop. Despite (normally) having a very consistent routine, she always wants to keep going. She'll jump on the bed, she'll insist on more books, she'll tell me (ten times) that she needs the potty (and you never, ever, ever ignore the potty request of a potty training toddler! ... and she knows that), she'll tell me she forgot to say goodnight to daddy, she'll tell me she forgot something in the car... anything to stave off lights out. Last night, though, she had a complete meltdown for 45 minutes and there was nothing I could do to comfort her. She was SO MAD about it actually being bedtime (it was actually considerably later than bedtime, which I think was the biggest part of the problem), and SO MAD at me for making it be bedtime - a few times, she screamed at me "I don't love you anymore", ouch. About halfway through the meltdown from hell, Deuce woke up. And wow, did he wake up. Given how aggressively he kicked and pressed into my pelvis, I can't help but imagine his thought process - "my sister is crying, I need to help her! GET ME OUT OF HERE NOW!!!" All I could do was lie there and wait it out as my two children thrashed away, wondering how the heck I'm going to survive similar situations once Deuce is on the outside... Interestingly, Deuce calmed down right around the time Squirt fell asleep...
Interestingly, earlier in the week I had a meeting that kept me out past Squirt's bedtime, so daddy had to put her to bed. Arriving home just a few minutes after her designated "bed time", I fully expected her to be awake and waiting. I was met at the door with a ssssshhhh by the hubby. She was asleep. Apparently, there was almost no fuss, though she asked for the light to be kept on. I just don't know what he did differently, or why it's always so much more of a struggle for me. I'm secretly convinced he drugged her, because she was sleeping like an angel when I peeked in on her...
