It was a shot in the dark when I asked my two little boys last night on they way home from our dinner out: “Who wants to do mommy’s hair when we get home?” Who knew both boys would shoot a hand in the air, like they eagerly wanted to answer a teacher’s question at school, and simultaneously repeat, “Me,” “Me,” “Me,” Me,” until I happily informed them they both could do my hair.
I love to have my hair done. And since I’m not sure my growing boys will want to play beauty shop for much longer, I’m capitalizing on this game while I can. I’m all-willing to let them do as they please, too. Spray bottles full of water? Sure. Yanking and pulling as they fumble a rubber band around clumps of my hair? Yep. A delayed bedtime so they can turn my hair into a tangle of knots? Of course.
“Mommy, your hair is so long,” Joey told me as his bedtime hour slipped away and he soaked my hair with blasts of water—it’s easier to brush this way, he tells me. “I remember when it was, like, one inch long,” he continued.
“Yeah, me too,” I told him, realizing I like this hair playtime for many reasons. One, it’s relaxing. Two, it gives me time with my boys. Three, it gives them time with me. Four: It means I have hair.
Gosh, is it nice to have hair—to have someone tear a brush through it and twist it into all sorts of unrecognizable styles, to pull it back into a ponytail, to have the pleasure of complaining about what this crappy Florida humidity does to my chemotherapy-acquired waves, to have an appointment on Thursday to get it cut because it’s too long.
Yes, my hair is long. Too long even.
Gosh, is it nice to have hair.