Kick Ass Wife has been dropping subtle hints as of late suggesting that I should learn how to fix The 3-Year-Old Girl’s hair.
The type of subtle hints where she is in an entirely different zip code of the house but I can still just make out her conversation with our daughter because she is speaking at approximately the same decibel level that two construction workers operating jackhammers on opposite ends of a busy city block might use when talking to one another.
“WOULDN’T THAT BE SPECIAL IF DADDY LEARNED TO FIX YOUR HAIR?” she’ll yell to The Hellcat, who is sitting cross-legged in her lap, fingers planted firmly in her ears protecting her eardrums.
Or “(NAME OF GIRL)’S DADDY FIXES HER HAIR. HE MUST REALLY LOVE HER. I BET HE’LL GO TO HEAVEN SOMEDAY. DON’T YOU WANT YOUR DADDY TO GO TO HEAVEN?”
The fact that KAW is even entertaining the idea of me making stylistic choices with anyone’s hair, much less our darling, lovely-locked 3-year-old girl, suggests pretty poor judgement on her part, and may even lead an outside observer to wonder whether she might be legally blind. I don’t even have hair, and fixing the minimal amount I do possess basically consists of waking up each morning and getting out of bed. That’s been the style I’ve rocked for about the last five or six years (I’m sure it’s only coincidental that my hair loss has paralleled the successive births of our four children.)
Oh, and by the way, I fix all three of the boys’ hair. Does she think they put those ball caps on themselves?
Okay, technically they do put the ball caps on themselves, but not without some pretty strong prompting from me. Sometimes I even have to look for the ball caps so they can put them on.
If I am already fixing two-thirds of the six hairstyles in our family, do I need to learn how to do the girl’s, too? What’s next, fixing Kick Ass Wife’s hair, as well? So much for that idea of shared responsibilities amongst parents.
But this past weekend I finally gave in, worn down by the badgering (and concerned about the effect of KAW’s “hints” on The Hellcat’s long-term hearing). I fixed The 3-Year Old Girl’s hair.
Well, actually I accessorized it; gave it that pop. KAW had already braided it in some intricate manner that only looked possible if you have three opposable thumbs, but I did make it look better.
The kids and I were out in the backyard when The Hellcat, helpful as always, did some gardening for us, plucking the blooms off of several flowers. I figured it would be a shame to waste them, so I delicately crammed them into her hair.
“Alright, go show Mom that Daddy fixed your hair.”
After about ten minutes, she came back, no blooms gracing her precious little melon.
“What happened? Did you show Mommy your hair?” I asked.
“Yeah. She said you should find the boys’ hats.”
Hey, I tried.