My three year old daughter is growing out her bangs. Every day for preschool, she insists on the following hair accessories:
The blue scrunchie (mmm, I really must remember to wash it one weekend).
The colorful hairband.
The shiny, green clip – her favorite, even though part of the green coating has long since disappeared. (Good thing we have lots of new clips stored away, unused!)
These are the props for today’s post.
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My three year old just got dressed all by herself.
It’s winter. There are layers. I’m impressed!
Now I need to fix her hair, but my daughter has new ideas of independence; she wants to brush her hair, do her ponytail, fix her clip and her hairband.
I eye the time.
I watch her wave her brush over her hair. “Now the other side. And the back!” I encourage her. “Great job! Now can I finish it?”
I try and explain.
“Okay, I see you don’t need me here in your room if you are going to do it all by yourself.”
I stand up to leave.
“No!” she screams.
She hands me the brush.
I sit down on her bed and she snuggles into the familiar spot on my lap. She allows me to brush her hair and I fix her ponytail with the scrunchie.
And then I sneak in the clip.
She jumps up. “I’ll put in the clip!” she cries and pulls it out, her bangs falling in her eyes.
She tries to put the clip back.
With two hands on her head, hair on her face, she tries to click her beloved, shiny, green accessory onto any piece of hair, somewhere toward the front of her head. Her hands push down. No click is heard.
The utter frustration of a three year old.
“I’LL PUT IN THE CLIP! Ughhhhh!”
Her hands push on her head some more. The clip has no chance.
There will be tears, I know. The question is how can I contain them so that she and her sister won’t be late out the door?
“Can I …?
“Can we …?
I eye the time. Sorry sweetie.
Defeated, the tears roll down, followed by her hands.
I take the clip, gather up her bangs and “click,” it’s done. I hand her the colorful hairband. She knows how to slide it into place.
I pick her up and take her to the kitchen for breakfast.
By the time she is at the door with her coat and shoes, her bad hair day seems to be behind her.
“Her eyelashes are still shiny,” remarks my five year old.
We hug and kiss and my husband takes the two girls to the car.
Who will fix her hair tomorrow?
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