Ai ya... Ai... Itai... Aeya... Oy Vey!

On what must have been an incredibly frustrating day, many, many moons ago, my lovely mother (and I'm not being sarcastic when I say that.  My mother is lovely.) put a bowl on the top of my head.  And she cut.  Now I know my sister and I were not the only children to suffer from the dreadful bowl cut.  I'm sure it was fairly popular back then.  But I still cringe when I look back at photos taken of me around that time.  What can I say?  I have beyond stick straight hair, and that bowl cut is meant for people whose hair curls just a tad at the ends.  At least then it looks just a little bit feminine.  Me... not so much.  I looked like a boy, a boy with an awful hair cut.  

I've often wondered about what possessed my mother to do something so drastic.  And now I know.  I have two beautiful little girls of my own.  One of them with long, beautiful curls, what must be an incredibly sensitive scalp, and the lungs to let me know when I've damaged said scalp.  Of course all I have to do is look at her hair and that is damage enough.  She flees with the speed of a baby cheetah at suppertime when I suggest that it is time to brush it out.  When I finally manage to wrangle my child, her hairbrush, and whatever I'm using to torture her hair with on that particular day, she screams and waves her hands.  "Mommy, you're hurting me," she yells... before I've even touched a hair on her head.  

It is starting to take every ounce of strength I have not to threaten her with the bowl cut.  She really does have the prettiest curls.  It would be such a shame to cut them off.  I know I won't do it, which is why I don't threaten to do it.  I hate not being able to follow through on my threats.  Seriously though... something's got to give.  I hate starting our mornings this way.  It's not a total monarchy though.  She does, for the most part, get to choose how she wants her hair done on any particular day.  It's just that it must be brushed.  For a while I joked about how hard I must be pulling her hair, and how the children in China must have felt it.  Worked for a while.  But now, I'm just plain out of material.  Maybe I'll teach her "Ouch" in several languages and we'll laugh as we try to pronounce each word.  Any other suggestions?