Right before I started 2nd grade, my mom trimmed my bangs so short that they barely laid down. I remember looking at my hair in the reflection of our olive green stove, trying to push them onto my forehead. My mom still reminds me what a trooper I was, telling her "Don't worry, they'll grow back."
These words resonated as I made a bold, very bold move last night. I decided to trim Morgan's hair. I had tried to take her to one of those kiddy salons twice during the week and both times they were closed. Morgan hadn't had her hair cut since last fall, and my child was looking a little rough around the edges. You know the type, the kid who's wandering around Walmart in pants that are too big, with a shirt that's too small, hair all crazy like their mom spun it up in a blender and threw in a barrette for good measure.
As she watched the first chunk of hair fall to the floor, Morgan gasped and yelled, "Don't cut it all off, Mom!" I calmly said, "Trust me, I won't cut too much." I actually had no idea what I was doing. I am so bad at cutting hair I don't even trim my own bangs.
But she held still. And I didn't cut too much.
In fact, I even tried to give her a few little layers.
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