I love doing hair.

Just point blank.

I love the occasions I can sit and fix my hair, do fun braids or buns for work, and the nights I take time to wash-dry-straighten it for the work week.

I love prom day.

Not only am I the prom sponsor in charge of decorating, organizing food, and such; but on prom day I get to help some pretty girls get prettied up with hair & make-up for the big night.

I love it.

It’s fun.

It’s one of those pieces of your teacher contract that falls under “and other duties assigned.”

You’re not just their teacher.

Sometimes you play counselor, mom, mentor, advice-columnist, nurse, etc… and sometimes hairdresser/beautician.

Other. Duties. {un}Assigned.

{back to the real story}

So growing up. I used to dream about doing my kids’ hair. I hoped I’d get to have a girl to do her hair and learn more braiding techniques and get to fix it all fun & fancy for school.

Then I got married.

{exactly 4 months later}

Found out there would be a baby arriving that December.

That whole time I figured it was a boy because my husband comes from a family of boys. Hurley boys. I assumed we would follow suit.

My gut & heart said girl.

So July came, and sitting in the ultrasound room we were told girl.

I cried ugly tears because the thoughts of fixing her hair flooded my mind.

So we do that almost every night and some mornings on school days & we fix hair every morning on non-school days.

Why at night?

Because that’s my time with Princess Pi for just us and to visit or just be together.

It’s also to keep her long locks from tangling up in a rat’s nest in her sleep thus avoiding a screaming match the next morning.

Most nights I just sit brushing until she asks if I’m done yet.

Then I take my time braiding.

“Do you want inside or outside braids?”

She usually says outside because she likes it to see the braids “floating”.

We do buns some mornings. Braids into buns. A bun like mommy with some flowy-down. A hair-low as she calls it. An Elsa braid. Etc. Etc.

We do hair. It’s our thing.

Have I cut her hair yet?


Am I any time soon? Probably not.

She’s my first baby with long beautiful blonde curls almost to her waist.

The platinum tips were her first hairs on her head.

That’s hard for me to let go of.

Some people will say it’s just hair.

Yea. It is.

And I just might keep a clipping after her first haircut.

{But I refuse to keep the baby teeth. That’s gross. Those can go.}

So tonight we did “outside” braids…

…while she told me what the Octonauts were doing, rehashed snorting like pigs with E & Honey, told me she wanted to take a cupcake to Honey’s tomorrow, wants to have hash browns at Dairy Queen before grocery shopping Saturday, she wants to play outside tomorrow night, she misses Daddy when he’s at work but wants to keep his spot in bed warm and will just roll into the middle when he comes home, she really liked her bbq taco cold but she likes some things hot but not tacos or pizza, she wants me to wake her up to see Daddy when he comes in, wants us to get more animals to be able to pet & love on, she wants to turn Emmie pink all over, she is ready to go to the pool and can she get new floaties for the deep end, etc. etc. etc.

And now you know why I take my time and sometimes start over & rebraid what I’d already done.

I don’t want her to stop talking and telling me about her day, what she thinks, her wants {no matter how far-fetched}, her worries {like ever having to get another shot}, and anything and everything.

It’s fun.

Now I get to do that times 2 when E has enough hair to do anything with.

Twice the braiding and hair do’s.

Twice the talking and visiting.

And twice the time with my girls.

So tonight’s thank you Jesus is for having daughters that I can fix their hair.

For girls who fuss at me for spraying too much detangler spray.

For girls who get annoyed with me trying to brush out knots.

For girls who want to use the pink can of dry shampoo like Momma so their hair smells like flowers.

For girls who pick out bows to match frilly dresses.

For girls who talk to their Momma.

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