The Hair

Z wants to grow her hair long.

I'm surprised by this request, as she has hated having her hair washed, brushed, combed, pony-tailed, TOUCHED since birth. She emerged from my undercarriage with a thick, full head of hair and never looked back. As it grew in unwieldy, scraggly tufts, my every attempt at brushing, barrettes or ponytails, no matter how benignly gentle, were met with angry rebukes. I was not interested in fighting with her about her hair. So another Dorothy Hammill was born.

Z, age TINY.

This short haircut of Z's was so easy, for all of us. We took her to get her hair cut every six weeks, where she could zone out to Dora while the scissors flew around her head. We washed it once a week, we brushed it maybe twice as often. The rest of the time, her hair was just there.

I look at little girls with long, smooth ponytails or complicated braids and wonder how much effort goes into that style and whether it was their idea or their parents'? I know some girls love having their hair fussed over, and maybe some really enjoy sitting still while their mothers pull a brush through tangled knots and OKAY, REALLY? DO ANY LITTLE GIRLS LIKE THIS??

I've really loved Z's short hair, not only because it minimizes the number of minutes I have to listen to whining, screaming or "YOU'RE PULLING OUT MY SCALP!" but also because it's so darn spunky. I liked that it set her apart from all the girls with long hair in ponytails. I liked thinking she was doing her own thing.

Though, I realize as I write this, it was most likely entirely MY thing.

Is our girls' hair, and what we do with it, really all about us?

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When I was about five, my mother took me to a hairdresser, whispered a request and sat back to watch as the hairdresser proceeded to slice off many inches of thick, tangled hair that I refused to brush. I was shocked, and deeply unhappy with what was deemed a "pixie cut" by the hairdresser and a "boy cut" by every kid in our neighborhood. Gone was the wrangling over hair brushing but also gone was the clearest marker of my femininity. I did NOT approve.

I grew my hair long as fast as I could and kept it long for the rest of my childhood.

I remind my mother of this moment as often as possible for maximum guilt inducement.

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Sometime this Spring, Z began asking us to let her grow her hair long. I reminded her that if she had long hair, we'd have to wash it more often, put it up out of her face sometimes, and brush it much more often, figuring that this undesirable list would quickly put the kibosh on her plans. It did, for about a month, but then the requests began again in earnest.

"Just cut my bangs, Mommy, let the rest grow LONG."

She doesn't seem to have a specific reason for wanting long hair- she's not desperate for a ponytail, she doesn't have favorite barrettes she's just dying to wear, in fact she still hates those things most of the time. With nothing else clearly forming her opinion, I can't help but wonder if the dominant cultural imperative of Pretty Women Have Long Hair has made it through to her brain.

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When I was a sophomore in college, I spent a session at a summer dance festival in Massachusetts. Something magical and deeply adolescent happens at these summer programs: you imagine you are changing in some radical way. I was still convinced I could shed parts of myself like a snakeskin, becoming someone slippery, daring, new.

The culmination of this summer's transformation was a very short haircut from a pricey Boston hairdresser. A bunch of hot, sticky days spent in un-airconditioned dance studios with hair stuck all over my face and a little encouragement from my best friend gave me the push I needed for a drastic cut. I walked out of there feeling like a million spunky bucks. For the last week of the dance festival, I swear I danced a little sassier, like I left some of my reserve along with my hair on the salon floor.

But then I got back to my little college town, where no one was capable of cutting my wavy hair in any style but "ten year old boy" and "blue haired granny". I felt I had to wear dangly earrings and makeup every day to counteract the neutering combination of my butchered hair and curve-less figure.

I quickly grew it long again.

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Z is about to start kindergarten, and the gravitational pull of peer influence is getting stronger by the day. I see her carefully watching her friends, trying out what they say on her own lips, seeing if it fits. I can only assume that being one of the few five year old girls she knows with short hair is starting to feel uncomfortable.

I know I have consciously made her hair low fuss because I myself am low fuss about my hair. I use my blow dryer only for special occasions, like when icicles might form on it if I walk out with it dripping wet in February. My flat iron gets dusted off maybe twice a year. I once got in a raging fight with a boyfriend who complimented me on "brushing" my hair, after I had spent an hour blowing it dry, applying four different products and flat-ironing it. If it looked like this when I brushed it, IT WOULD LOOK LIKE THIS EVERY DAY, BUDDY.

Wow. I could still get into that fight TODAY.

I like to think that how I spend my time, every minute, counts. And my girls are paying attention. When CG and I have date nights, I spend time dressing up, putting on makeup, BRUSHING MY HAIR (Anyone want to have this fight with me? I'M READY.). I make an effort to celebrate our dates, to mark them as special, with a little extra effort. I feel good when I'm making these preparations and I think this is a fine message to send to my girls.

But day to day? I've got better things to do than fuss over my hair for an hour. I think this is a GREAT message to send to my girls.

However, I do have long hair. Yes, I've had short, spunky haircuts before. But they never worked for me. I like having long(ish) hair. I feel naked without a ponytail. I've figured out what works for me and I'm sticking to it. I no longer believe that a haircut can change my life.

Sometimes I worry Z will be at a disadvantage socially because I haven't taught her all the girly things she might need to know to fit in with her peers. It is my inner teenager that worries this, of course. I know that what I really want for her is the self-confidence to create her own sense of style and beauty and comfort.

We are going to try this idea of hers, letting her grow her hair long. She needs to be allowed to figure out what works for her. I'm not sure how this'll go but it is her body, and as she gets older, she's going to want to experiment and own every part of it.

Even the dead parts that need to be brushed. Daily.

I LOVE your dre- I mean, uh, isn't this weather nice?!

I can't get this recent column by Lisa Bloom out of my head.

In the piece, Ms. Bloom asks us to question our habit (It is my habit. Is it yours, too? I fear it's our collective, societal habit.) of always complimenting little girls on what they're wearing or how they look when greeting them.

Before reading this article, I never questioned this behavior, in myself or others. I mean, I don't tell our neighbor's 6 year old she looks like a beautiful shiny princess! or tell the 9 year old down the street she looks so slim in those new pants! But I often remark on how colorful their shoes are or how fancy their dress is or how much I like their pigtails. Because I do! I love those things!

And I like to give and receive compliments as much as the next woman. Compliments are one of the biggest social cues we females use to grease the wheels of social interaction. To tell someone I like you! or I'm friendly! we resort to complimenting their clothing, shoes, physique.

Since reading this article I am shocked to notice just how hard it is for me to say something, ANYTHING else to a girl when first greeting her.

I love your dress! comes rolling off my tongue before I can stop it.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with complimenting a girl on her dress, especially if she's particularly excited about it. But when we always focus our attention on how girls look, I have to believe it feeds into a deep cultural pressure to value looks above all. And if this is the prevailing message everyone, EVEN US FEMINISTS, are sending to the little girls in our world, isn't that sad? And harmful?

I'm going to work on finding other ways to greet the little girls in my world. Will you do the same or do you think this is a load of hooey?

One of the Many Reasons I Love Him

Dear E and Z,

One day last month our family took a hike in a nearby park. It was the first time in a long time we had taken you hiking and, Z, you were not too thrilled with the idea. I was worried about this little endeavor but I love hiking so much and hoped we could get you to enjoy it rather than complain the whole way.

Luckily, after initially wanting to be carried (E) and fearing bees and bears and poison ivy (Z), you got into it. Both of you ran down the muddy trail, squealing over bugs and picking up rocks that were definitely dinosaur bones.

We got all the way down to the river, where the mud had gone to business school and set up a LLC. In an instant, Z, you slipped and fell right on your bottom with a terrific muddy splat, flinging brown spots all over your legs, face, arms and your frilly black and white polka dot dress. (Yes, we tried to get you to hike in something else, you wouldn't have it. It was the frilly dress or nothing.) You burst into tears, wailing that you weren't pretty anymore.

Your dad. Oh your dad. He squatted down right in front of you, completely earnest and sincere. Scooping up mud with his fingers he proceeded to war-paint his own face. With the first stroke he said "Am I still beautiful to you, Z?" and you smiled through your tears and said "yes". At the second stroke- "How about now?"- you giggled a "yes" and the final stroke brought a raucous, hysterical "YES!".

He then looked deeply into your face and said "You are beautiful no matter what, no matter how much mud you have on you. In fact, I think you look more beautiful now, because you are real and outside and having fun."

And then, E, you immediately, happily, smeared mud all over yourself.

(Ah well.)

As we hiked back to the car, all of us muddy from head to toe, I thought, for the hundredth time, what a gift this man is. To us all.

You are beautiful, no matter what.

Amen.

Love,

Your Clueless But Hopeful Mama

High maintenance woman.

My roommates in San Francisco used to razz me about my detailed makeup application. I guess it seemed incongruous to them that I wore old, boring, sometimes stained clothing, refused to use a blowdrier and yet insisted on "putting on my face", like some proper 90 year old lady, before leaving the house.

I wear makeup almost every day, use MANY products, including the obscure ones (eyelid primer anyone?) and yet I like to think that I look like I have very little makeup on (please don't tell me otherwise, dear friends).

Now that I no longer have roommates to poke at me, I don't think much about it, truly. I feel better with makeup on and it helps me feel good about myself, confident, ready to face the world. I think it's a holdover from my dancing days. Not only did I perform under layers of SERIOUS stage makeup but I found that wearing makeup to class and rehearsals helped me be more confident, something that I sorely needed.

But lately, Z's been watching me a little too intently when I put on my face in the morning. And she wants to apply eyelid primer, blush, eyeshadow, lip tint etc. etc. ETC.



And I don't know how I feel about this.

On one hand, what's the harm, right? It's just makeup. She can wear it herself someday if she wants to. It can be fun, a way to express yourself.

On the other hand, why do I need makeup to feel confident? Do I really want to give her the impression that I don't feel good enough without my mineral-containing, light-reflecting, leaping-tall-zits-in-a-single-bound face powder?

I worry she'll get the message that she's not good enough without it, too.

It's only a doll, right?

When we found out we were having a girl, we started having very serious discussions about the toys we wanted her to play with. In: trucks, blocks, legos, toolbenches, books and musical instruments. Out: dolls, play kitchens and anything pink. She would learn problem solving and physics and confidence not dependence and care-taking and home economics. We would shape her expectations and aspirations with toys that defy gender stereotypes.

(Ha. HAHAHAHA.)

I am a proud feminist. I intend to teach Z about feminism and how we owe every right and power we enjoy to those strong, brave women who came before us. I also just bought her her first real doll. I believe (hope/pray/am-deluded -into-thinking) that these do not need to be mutually exclusive positions.

She hasn't been interested in dolls until about a week ago. She didn't really have any dolls and if she saw one at playdates, she never played with them. Then last week, she was obsessed with the two baby dolls at Kidspace Museum, carrying them, wrestling with them and refusing to leave them behind in the toddler room without a fight. A few days later, when our friend brought her daughter and her daughter's baby doll for a visit, she similarly latched onto the doll and cried her goodbyes. So what's a good mother who's wracked with guilt and sick inside at the thought of leaving her beautiful, precious daughter at daycare in the all-too-near-future to do?

I went right out and bought her a ridiculously expensive French baby doll, of course.

At least my fears of creating some Stepford girly girl have yet to be realized. In fact, the lack of gentle care-taking of Dolly is rather frightening. Since the purchase of Dolly, she has been regularly and unceremoniously stuffed in a lunchbox, bodyslammed to the floor, carried by the head and let's not even begin to talk about the unspeakable things Z does to her eyes. And Z still likes to spend at least as much time playing in the dirt, pushing her trike, reading books and pouring water from bowl to bowl as before Dolly came along.

So I'm not too worried. Just don't tell Gloria Steinem that I'm seriously eyeing a pink play kitchen. One of the many things I've learned in my 15 months of being a mother is this: never say never.