Eve loves hair. Her mother makes Eve keep her own blonde locks short since she is too young to care for it herself. And so Evie focuses on my hair instead. “I love hair” she says, as she gleefully grabs fistfuls. Playtime is punctuated with happy hairstyling sessions where Madame Eve “fluffs” my hair and snaps in Barbie barrettes with abandon. The day I chopped off my hair was a sad one for Eve. She somberly stared in dismay and immediately interrogated me as to when it would all grow back. Months, I inwardly lamented. “Soon” I assured the concerned child.
Now, rather than “hello,” I am instantly greeted each evening with “Is your hair long?” I am obligated to let down my hair for evaluation each week and assure her every time that it is just a little bit longer. Storytime consists of us laying close together in bed, me reading either Pinkalicious or Fancy Nancy or Cinderella (all of them, if she can manage it) while Evie holds a fistful of my hair, rubbing her thumb across it as she listens intently. The bedtime ritual ends with Eve’s dolls–Snow White, Belle, Aurora, and Sleeping Beauty, respectively–“washing” my hair. Pretty much it gets mussed up by little fabric hands until it is a delightful mess. When I figure she’s ripped enough hair out of my skull, I tuck her in, kiss her goodnight, and she closes her eyes quietly.
Last Saturday I walked through the door and received my usual greeting: “Is your hair long?” I let down my hair and gave it a good shake as she watched with wide, happy eyes. She held up her arms so I could lift her onto my hip, then she grabbed a fistful of my now finally shoulder-length and observed it carefully before looking at me and saying,
“When are you going to cut it?”