Friday, February 1, 2008
Page 15
AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)
Haircut Has Mom on Razor’s Edge
By J’AMY PACHECO
“The hair is the richest ornament of women.”
—Martin Luther
“Oh, say, can you see my eyes? If you can, then my hair’s too short
—Hair
It’s been said that her hair is a woman’s crowning glory. Women spend countless dollars on products to dye, curl, straighten, repair, highlight, perm and otherwise modify their tresses.
In Brazil, hair is so valued that bandits have reportedly recently taken to assaulting women to cut off their locks, presumably to sell it for wigs.
I used to have a pretty impressive head of hair. When I was in high school, my hair was long enough that I could sit on it. It was the color of straw, and brought me a great deal of attention.Then along came Farrah Fawcett, who inspired girls like me to flock to beauty salons to have our hair cut into feathery manes. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the shock I experienced when I got the first glimpse of my feathered hair, which was chopped off to mid-back level.
After that first glimpse, I never attempted to regrow my hair. In fact, I wore it really short in the 1980s. But since those were the big hair days, what I lacked in length, I made up for in foofyness.
In recent years, I’ve taken to keeping it just past my shoulder blades. Not because I treasure my hair — the color of which is now as fake as a Hollywood starlet’s bust — but because it’s easier to stuff it into a ponytail rubber band.
Now, I live vicariously through my daughter, who has what I’d describe as a glorious head of hair.
It didn’t start out that way. She was completely bald until after her first birthday, when she sprouted a strip of dark hair in a Mohawk pattern. By kindergarten, however, she had a thick head of brown hair that we kept at shoulder length with bangs.
By first grade, she begged to be allowed to grow her bangs out. Her hair went with the bangs, and now, she, too can sit on her hair. As it grew longer, it gained reddish and golden highlights, and developed a soft wave. It is indeed a glorious head of hair, and I love brushing it and buying sparkly things to clip and band into it.
She loves her hair, and never complained about it until a recent trip to a department store, when she had to use the ladies room. She emerged from the stall horrified — her hair had touched the porcelain that attached the seat to the tank — and was sopping wet. While I assured her it was probably just water from a leaking tank, she could hardly contain her tears as I scrubbed the ends of her hair in the public restroom using hand soap from a dispenser.
I’m sure it’s that restroom tragedy that served as the catalyst for the community service project she’s proposed for this year: she is seriously considering cutting off her hair to donate it to a non-profit that makes wigs for children who lose their hair.
Now, her community service project could be as simple as collecting garbage from the local park. But her community service projects are never simple or easy. Two years ago, she campaigned to educate people about the dangers of leaving children in hot cars, and ran a regional poster contest. Last year, she wrote a play about hate that was performed not only at her school, but before a gathering of regional educators.
Following those projects, a haircut seems like a simple thing. But as the mommy who brushes out six years of growth every morning, I’m having some difficulty accepting the possibility that half of that hair may soon be gone.
At first, I encouraged her. I told her about the fun new styles she could have if she lost 20 pounds of hair. I bought her teen magazines so she could choose a haircut. I assured her that hers was a very good cause.
But as her resolve to cut her hair grows stronger, I find my own commitment to the project wavering. I know it will grow back — eventually — but I’m having some trouble imagining my little girl without a waterfall of hair cascading down her back.
I don’t know how this will turn out. Will she take one look at the scissors and reconsider? Will she go through with it? I guess I won’t know for certain until I see her long brown braid hit the floor.
Boy, talk about life on the razor’s edge…
Copyright 2008, Metropolitan News Company