Nicolette and the Attack of the Scissors (Also Known As: More Evidence That I'm a Bad Parent)

Have you ever tried to do something...worked really hard at a project of patience...only to have all your effort thwarted by someone who doesn't share your vision?

I have.

It's frustrating.

Especially when that thwarter of grandiose dreams is none other than a four-year-old girl.

I have been trying to grow hair on my littlest daughter since birth. She has lovely hair...fine blond tresses that hold every sunlit kiss that Florida has offered her. But in four years, it has not grown past her shoulders. Her bangs grow even slower...having never grown out longer than the tops of ears in all that time. Just this past fall, I was finally able to gather ALL HER HAIR and put it in a ponytail. It was miraculous. it was wonderful. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. I could envision little Nicolette, running gleefully through the lapping waves at our favorite beach this summer, with streaks of sunlight flowing out behind her.

Never mind that she doesn't like her hair fixed, even in a simple ponytail, and will usually rip out anything I've done to it seconds after I've applied the last layer of hairspray.

Never mind that she doesn't even like her hair BRUSHED, and so it always looks like a tangled nest.

I knew that someday, those things would change. And her hair would be long and shiny and pretty.

But then...my hopes and dreams and visions of vanity came crashing down.

While instructing the kids to pick-up (yet again) the front room, I came upon a pile of sunlit golden locks upon the floor. I stood there transfixed at the way the slanted sunlight streaming through the blinds played an the slightly curled tresses. It was so pretty.

As reality began to sink in, I thought: "It must be Barbie hair. she cut her Barbies hair." But wait...we don't HAVE Barbies. And their hair is platinum...it doesn't have all the shades of sun and sand trapped in its wisps.

Like a woman about to face the horror of , well, home-done haircuts, I turned and looked at Nicolette.

"Ohhhh, nooooo...." I moaned.

How could I have missed it? When had she done it?

Her bangs...cut close to her forehead.


All the hair underneath the top layer, cut ragged and crazy.


All over her head, huge chunks of hair were cut shorter than others.


It literally looked like someone tried to teach a four-year-old how to layer. Which, essentially, is what happened. Minus the teaching part.

Nicolette got sent to her room, where she cried herself to sleep. I gathered as much pretty hair as I could off the floor, and vacuumed the rest.

I feel responsible...I had, after all, set her in front of a movie so I could finish my book. But I don't want another blog devoted to my failings as a mother. So I am shamelessly going to blame someone else. And I think that person should be (drum roll, please)...

Kaitlyn.

Yes, Kaitlyn.

Kaitlyn cut her bangs herself last weekend, and let Nicolette watch. So it's her fault...sorta. Kinda. Well, not really. But, c'mon!!! I don't WANNA be responsible this time.

Its not right...but I'm going to be okay with it. That's what teenagers are for...for blaming things on.

Well - that's what dogs are for, but we don't have one, so I guess a teenager is the next best scapegoat.

And I know the truth...and will have it burned into my conscious every time I look at her mangled tresses. I am a bad parent. My baby looks like I let her play with weed whackers.

Excuse me. I have to go sort ponytail holders and cry now.