Living Vicariously

We try to let our kids just be themselves... without any pushing from their parents. If that weren't the case, I never would have signed up the boys for football and Allison for cheerleading.

But yesterday, I lived vicariously through my baby girl. Actually, it's been going on for some time. Nearly six years, to be exact.

You see, Allison has great hair. Enough wave to be interesting and to have body, but not enough curl to be annoying when the humidity gets high. Not so thick as to be hot constantly, but not so thin as to be wispy.



I do not have great hair. Especially when it grows long. It gets stringy. My solution is to cut or perm it.

We have never cut Allison's hair. A couple of trims since she was born is about it.

But she's been begging to get her hair cut. I did the same thing as a child, and when my parents refused my request, I took scissors in hand and cut my own hair. And then we had to visit a beautician to fix my work. I had a Dorothy Hamill cut... way before it was the "in" thing to do. I was three years old.

And that was the last time it was short until I was in my early 20s, when I moved from Oklahoma to Tennessee and figured, "Nobody knows me, so if it looks stupid, nobody will be acutely aware of that fact."

So when Allison asked to cut her hair, I immediately assured her she could. But I asked her if she would wait awhile. Until school starts, and she begins kindergarten, or until her birthday, when she turns six. (I needed some flexibility... because I needed to work myself up to it.)

She agreed to wait, which was good. Because it gave me time to continually question her for several weeks to be certain she hadn't changed her mind.

I decided to push my luck a bit. I asked her if she would like to donate her hair to a sick girl whose hair had fallen out. She seemed interested, but not sure.

I pulled up the Locks of Love page on the Internet and showed her pictures of sick girls, before and after they received their wigs. It scared her.

She got a pitiful look on her face and she asked, "Am I going to be bald when I'm done?"

I assured her she would not. But her fear gave such a great spring board for discussion on how a little girl like her would feel if she lost her hair. Allison has such a sweet heart... she was totally on board after that.

Yesterday was the day. Just a spur-of-the-moment decision. First, I took her to have her picture made. Good night... are all little girls such pose-happy princesses? She would have stayed for hours!

But we had bigger plans. It was Allison's first time at a beauty salon, so we took pictures. Lots of pictures.

First, the wash. Because the donated hair had to be clean (and free of hairspray!).



Hmmm, a little nervous, perhaps?



I wish I could remember what she was "Ohh-ing" about here, but I can't. The whole experience was a big "Ooohh, Ahhhh" thing for her.



She loves having her hair blown dry.



Nerves were gone. Smiles back in place.



For a bit, anyway. Still pondering the ramifications of short hair.



The ponytail was almost cut off here.



Cuteness.



All done.



And we're ready to mail off this pony tail.



It may not look like it, but that pony really is more than 10 inches long.

Allison says now that she's going to grow her hair long again. Dare I hope that she'll choose to donate it again? Yeah. I'll hope.

Yesterday evening, we spent time with my in-laws downtown waiting for the fireworks display (for a local annual event). My father-in-law has a house that he's remodeling very near prime viewing spots, so we met at the house for an outdoor picnic dinner courtesy of KFC.

Some time during the evening, while Allison was coloring the patio with sidewalk chalk, she said to nobody in particular, "Does anybody have a mirror around here? I want to look at my hair."

Not two hours later, as we walked a short distance to see the fireworks, she noticed something under the shine of the street lights.

"It sure is a good thing I have a shadow. So I can watch my hair."

Yes, she's a little self absorbed right now. We're hoping it'll fade quickly.

We're just proud of her. It was a big day for our baby.

We walked into the salon with a girl who looked five. But we walked out with a girl who looked nine. Really. Someone in the place even told me that. I'll be okay with it.

When she's really nine.