Monday, March 17, 2014


A fair amount of time in our house is spent on hair.  I actually love doing my kids' hair, especially when my daughter and I have uninterrupted weekend time.  In the last two+ years she has been with us, I have gotten progressively better, even once managing to put in yarn twists that lasted a whole month, surprising women of color that I, a white lady, managed such a thing.

Now that I'm almost forty, I've noticed my feathers being ruffled less and less by things that used to upset me, like the incident yesterday at a loud birthday party in which a lovely Eritrean lady asked me who did my daughter's hair.  I had taken her twists out in the morning, sending her to church with a loosely pinned up "twist-out" with headband.  By the party, it needed attention, so when the lady asked, I raised my eyebrows at her and said, "Oh, I know what you're thinking: 'what's that white lady think she's doing with that black baby girl's hair?'"  She laughed.  When I said I knew it was a mess, she nodded in agreement and offered to bring my daughter over some weekend for braiding.  I took her number and may just do it.

Last night after the party, I put my daughter's hair in two pigtail large twists, Rudy Huxtable-style.  She looked adorable.

This morning my son needed to get his hair combed out and tea tree oil sprayed in since there's been a few cases of lice in his class.   He's gotten the idea in his brain that he wants an afro, or "puffy hair" as we calls it.  When he started to complain about the combing, I reminded him, "You know, if you want puffy Michael Jackson hair, you have to tolerate this combing and spraying."  He stood perfectly still the rest of the time.

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