I S. T. I. N. K. at fixing hair. I cannot stress this point strongly enough. Hairdressers always marvel at how healthy my own brunette tresses are and I feebly admit it’s only because I seldom blow dry, curl or do harsh things to it because I don’t know how. And also, I really don’t care. I also hate shopping and pink and I own fewer pairs of shoes than my husband (4), but that’s another blog post entirely.
God, in His wonderful sense of humor, gave me two girls. Two girls with lovely hair. But homeschooling means there is zero pressure to get my younglings out the door with cute ribbons or French braids or whatever. We’re doing good if they remember (read: if I remind them) to run a brush through it. One time a friend’s daughter was spending the night and at bedtime, in order to avoid tangles, she asked me to braid her thick, lustrous hair. I took the brush in my trembling hands and said, “Sure, Sweetie.” But what really went through my mind was more like, “Zoe, I would dash through a burning house, take on hungry cheetahs, or even jump out of a plane to save you, but braid your hair? Child, you know not what you are asking.” I wish I had a picture of the resulting um, braid. Then you would understand.
One of the challenges of this nomadic lifestyle is being away from your favorite stylist. Mine is super-talented. Like, really, she deserves a cape but for some reason every time I go to see her she puts it on me. The very last time we saw Amber before our departure she gave me a personal tutorial on how to cut the girls’ hair so we would not be forced to visit a stylist we know nothing about, which in terms of risk level is on par with crossing I-4 through Orlando on foot or perhaps wearing a bacon vest while on safari. Amber very patiently guided and explained and allowed me to take the shears and practice while we were still in a position for her to fix any major blunders. Poor Amber. I think she had to go home and take Valium after watching me nearly sever my own digits.
As a going-away gift Amber gave me a bag full of all the supplies I would need to ruin -- I mean, trim up the girls’ hair. Their last real cut was in early January and they were beginning to complain about bangs in their eyes and I decided I could not longer avoid this task. So with great trepidation I took out the gear and tried to remember all of Amber’s instructions. What are the clips for? How do I hold the thinning shears? The moon needs to be aligned with what?
Now, we were undertaking this feat while far away from the Bob T, so I had packed the minimum I thought I would need, and alas, I forgot the little water spray bottle for keeping hair wet. So we started out with a bang (rimshot) with Em having to stick her head under the faucet. Mind you, it’s April in Colorado and the water comes out COLD.
Having survived step one, we moved on. I didn’t have a good place to perch Em that put her at the right height so I alternated between half-squats and pressing my back against the wall to wedge myself level to her shoulders. Also, I didn’t even remember this necessary point until halfway into the process. The result? The cut is pretty uneven. And by uneven I mean, if I were to try to rectify the problem by trimming the other side to match she would be sporting a mullet. Crikey.