It’s Only Hair

Hair, especially children’s hair, is a big deal – at least in the South. I don’t know why, nor do I know if other heritages or cultures value the hair of children as much as a born-and-raised southern momma. What I have learned is that a child cutting his or her hair or offering their shearing services to an unsuspecting sibling or neighbor is a catastrophe of Titanic proportions.

And so, one evening while relaxing in front of the television, my sweet third child, daughter number two with shiny, white-blond hair bounced past my chair with little notice and into the kitchen where her mother was cleaning.

    “Mommy, I cut my hair!” She exclaimed proudly.

Then came the gasp – a gasp so intense as to suggest that a single molecule of oxygen was all that remained in the room.

     “What did you do! Mike, look what your daughter did!”

I leapt from my easy chair and in two giant steps found myself on the marbled gray tile in our kitchen. There, I saw the problem, er…disaster. Our 4-year-old with stunning blond hair reaching just above her chin now had less stunning blond hair just above her ear, well, at least on one side. The other side was maybe an inch or so longer. If the master bathroom had not been riddled with the evidence of small golden mounds of hair, I could have been convinced that someone attached a running Weed Eater to the ceiling fan and Polly stood beneath it.

With tears streaming down Polly’s and her mother’s faces, we moved into the den to sit, discuss, and calm ourselves. My wife sat in her usual spot on the end of the sofa, I sat in my easy chair beside her, and Polly sat between us on the chair’s ottoman facing us. I knew I needed to quickly diffuse the situation and offer a satisfactory plan of action.  So, I said to my wife:

       “Honey, it will be okay. Why don’t you call the hair stylist tomorrow morning and get an appointment? I am sure she won’t have any problem giving Polly a new, cute hair style.”

Leaving not even a second for her mother to respond, Polly’s tiny, exhilarated voice pierced the tension with these fateful words:

“Can I get my nails done too!?”

I instantly snatched Polly out of the reach of her mother and buried my head into the cushioned arm of the chair to muffle my laughter. I tried to pretend that I was upset with Polly, but I just couldn’t. Over the years, I have embellished the story and often said that my wife’s head spun around, and that she vomited pea soup, but the truth is that I couldn’t see anything because of the tears from my laughter.

A Style All Her Own

Polly did get her hair “styled,” but not her nails. The damage was so bad that there wasn’t much the stylist could do, but even things up. More than once over the next few months, Polly was mistaken for a boy. One instance we all remember is when her brother had a friend over and they were in his room playing. Polly nosily bounded into the room and was immediately met with orders from her brother to, “Get out!” Polly complied and the friend turned to her brother and said, “I didn’t know you had a little brother.”

Her hair, of course, grew back. But this was the beginning of Polly’s love affair with hair, nails, makeup and style. It was the continuation of Polly going against the grain, bucking social norms, and establishing her place in the world.

Since the butchering of her innocent hair, Polly has exposed her locks of gold to a literal rainbow of treatments. She’s worn green (her favorite color,) blue, pink, purple, and red for Christmas, which we all agreed looked as if a reindeer bled out on her head.

A piercing in each ear lobe has never been sufficient. Polly has added piercings in her ears and after turning eighteen earlier this year, pierced her nose. Then came the change, her mother and I dreaded – a tattoo. While I preferred that she not get a tattoo, I admit that I like her choice of image and body location. On her right inner arm just below the elbow is a simple black outline of the finger of God touching Adam’s finger from Michelangelo’s painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

No Judgement Necessary

In the beginning, Polly could only dye her hair over Summer and Winter breaks, because her private, school dress code did not allow hair styles with “unnatural colors.” When she began homeschooling in the eleventh grade (a story for another time) she could change her hair whenever she wanted and wear it that way for an extended period.

When the hairstyles and piercings became more common, so did the judgement. Some adults close to us suggested that she might “fall in with the wrong crowd.” Others said, “Are you really going to let her keep her hair [insert color]? And as we ventured into public places, the stares and eyerolls have been noticeable. Even recently, Polly had to agree to cover her nose piercing for work after a customer complained.

Some dads might choose to intervene or might have engaged on the issue more forcefully sooner. Certainly, I can always use the leverage of, “As long as you live under my roof, you have to follow my rules. When you start paying rent, making your car payment, etc. you can have any color hair you want.”

But why? Is that really the hill I want to die on?

This generation, more than any other before, has access to images, ideas, and influences that can lead to irreversible consequences. Gun-violence is now the leading cause of death among children and teens. Suicide has surpassed homicide on the list of leading causes. Deaths from motor vehicles remains the second leading cause of death with distracted driving, intoxication, and speeding the primary culprits. Drug overdoses are at record highs, and the mental health crisis in the country is damaging more and more young people.

These are just some of the dangers faced by children, teens, and young adults that parents and adults have to prepare them to combat. Obviously, death can’t be undone, but the damage mentally, physically, and emotionally that is caused by injury, abuse, or near-death experiences reverberates throughout one’s life.

After rearing four teens and contemplating how different their lives today are from mine in the ‘80s, I’ve realized a few things:

Tattoos can be removed.

Piercings can heal.

And, it’s only hair.