A Hairy Situation

 

Yesterday in church, I was reminded of one of the traumas of my youth. 

A little girl, perhaps about 6 years old, was seated 2 or 3 rows ahead of us.  Her hair was absolutely beautifully styled.  I am making the assumption that her mother spent considerable time with her “do.”  A French braid began above her right ear and encircled the back of her head.  At the left ear it turned into a traditional braid which was several inches long.  The braid had then been placed across the top of her head.  Because her hair had been more blond when she was younger, the end of the braid was lighter than the other hair and looked like a golden tiara.  It was held in place with several golden butterflies, which I thought at first were clips, but later decided must be pins.

Part way through the sermon, the little girl said something to her dad, and he removed most of the butterflies.  Mama was not sitting with them, so there was no opportunity for her to veto this dismantling.  Eventually the long braid hung down behind her left ear, but the French braiding was still in place.  I actually was paying attention to the sermon, so I didn’t see the next step, but as they left the church after the conclusion of the service, the braid was completely undone.  The little girl’s long hair cascaded down her back in lovely waves.

I thought, “Oh, boy.  Mama is not going to be happy.  She expected her hard work to last more than a couple of hours.”

When I was a child, I had very long hair.  By late grade school and into 7^th grade, my mother was still doing my hair every morning.  She braided each side, pulled the two braids together into one braid at the back of my head and gathered up the remaining hair along with the braid into a bun at the back of my neck.  There was no way I could have done this myself.  She never made any attempt to help me figure out how I could do something on my own.  Also, she was adamantly opposed to me just letting my hair hang down my back.  One day, I was too vigorous in gym class and the bun fell out.  The rest of the day I had the braid in the middle of a cascade of long wavy hair.  I received many compliments from my fellow students who thought my hair was beautiful.  My mother did not share this opinion.  She was furious with me for walking around all day looking like “a mess.”

Combined with this, was my Dad’s increasing anger that I was getting older and not taking care of my own hair.  In his mind, I had no right to expect my mother to do it.  I have no idea why they couldn’t see that between them they were putting me in an impossible position.

I finally figured out myself that I was in an untenable situation and asked to have my hair cut.  I was afraid this would make them unhappy too, but they agreed.  Thereafter, my hair never went beyond shoulder length and has sometimes been even shorter.  When I arrived at middle-age, I decided that having my hair short was a non-surgical face lift.

I sure hope that little girl wasn’t in too much trouble for dismantling that carefully crafted hair style.