Flow It, Show It

Have I ever mentioned that my kid has never had a haircut? Ever? And she's almost four and a half?

There's a lot of hair there.

This photo just doesn't do it justice. I'll see if I can find a better one. I mean, it hits her waist dry. There's still a little bit of the wave and curl she had when she was younger and her hair was shorter -- there was a transcendent period when her hair formed ringlets down to her shoulder blades without my doing a thing to it. Even now, as long as it is, the ends still curl a bit, especially when it's been freshly washed. And it's glorious. Truly. I love it.

Okay, I have a confession. There was a commercial years ago, in the mid-'90s probably, that featured two little girls with ridiculously long hair running down a hall in their nightgowns. I think they jumped onto their parents' bed, family hijinks ensued, etc etc; I have no idea what they were selling (not hair products; coffee maybe? mortgages? Hell, I don't know). ANYWAY. I loved that ad; I was completely charmed by those two kids and thought I'd love to have a little girl someday with hair like that. And now I do. (Okay, a confession-within-a-confession: Jane was very much part of that picture. I think she would have had similarly glorious hair, maybe darker. [These are the little things that get to me: missing out on the older Jane, not knowing who she would have been, what she might have become.])

But the thing is, when does it become too much? I mean, Sarah lets me wash and condition and comb it. It's usually in braids or ponytails, generally tangle- and food-free, so maintenance isn't yet an issue. But there's going to be a point when it's just silly. Just a silly, silly amount of hair. I just hope we'll recognize that point before we get there. 

(Ooh, found another picture from earlier this summer:

See? Way long.)

I'm sure the day will come in a classically inevitable way: she'll hack at it herself, or burdock will get ensnarled in it, or she'll fall asleep with purloined gum in her mouth and wake up with the wad inextricably fused into a fuzzy mat (not that such a thing ever ever happened to me when I was maybe six or seven, and my mom and I discovered that ice and peanut butter do not solve all gum/hair peccadilloes). And when it happens we'll march off to a punnily-named hairdresser's and hope there's enough uncompromised hair to donate to Locks of Love.

Until that day comes, however, I'm going to delight in it, thrilled that she lets me play with it and brush it and braid it, and hoping that the cut, when it comes, will be another grand adventure for her.