Haircut

Her hair is drifting towards her eyes. Overgrown and messy, like weeds on her little head. She needs a haircut. She wants a haircut.

I make an appointment and we walk to the salon. She pushes her stroller with her baby doll along the crooked sidewalk and I hold her hand. My baby. My not so baby anymore as she lets go to keep her stroller steady.

“I want to grow out my bangs, Mummy,” she says as she looks up at me, her dark chocolate-coloured eyes wide and deep.

I am about to say no. And then I stop myself. I can’t believe I was about to say no. I want to say it again.

I stop myself again because I realize she isn’t asking me. She is telling me. She is four years old and telling me how she would like her hair cut.

I notice all the ways I can control this situation.

I can lie and say the salon is closed. I can lie and say we need to get home for her little brother earlier than I expected. I can just say no as mothers are inclined to do when they don’t have an answer.

But she is telling me, not asking. I smile down at her and bite the inside of my cheek.

“Of course, you can grow out your bangs.” I speak.

I want my baby girl to stay a baby girl. I want her to look like Ramona Quimby forever. Or maybe even a version of what I think she should be.

But this is that moment I knew was coming. The first of a million moments that will transpire between us. When daughter tells mum what she wants, and mum realizes that she must let go.

She sits on the seat and I watch as the chair moves up, and up, closer to the stylist. Higher and higher she goes and she giggles all the way there like she's being tickled with the anticipation of this moment.

The stylist looks at me to ask “what are we doing with her hair today?”

My little not-so-little girl looks at me.

“She will tell you what she wants today,” I say.

And then Birdie looks at herself in the mirror. Her smile makes the room fluorescent with joy in seconds. Her pride bounding off her cheeks and bouncing off the mirror and it surrounds her in light. She tells the stylist to only cut the back, but to let her bangs grow.

She looks at me for approval. I nod and smile. And watch as the stylist teaches her how to comb her hair to the side so it doesn’t bother her as it grows.

Letting go means letting more in. Letting go means lifting her up. It means her faith in herself, her autonomy and self-love has all the room it needs to grow and flourish.

I pause to make note of all the ways I can back off, let her decide, give her room to know herself and love herself on her own terms.

When we leave, Birdie manages to push her stroller while handling her lolly with ease. She looks up at me. “Thank you Mummy,” she says.

“No, thank YOU. Thank you for telling me what you want. I’m proud of you Birdie.”

“I love my hair,” she says and then pushes past me.

Her straight brown mane, shiny and new, swishes from side to side as she skips her way down the block. Moving farther away from me.

I close my eyes to take a picture of her with my mind.

To conjure this day up when I need it.

This is mindfulness.