the haircut

It seems that every 4 year old wants to give themselves a haircut. Why is that? I remember back when I lived in suburbiaville, back when I used to hang out with all the other mommies, scrap-booking or watching the kids play in the back yard, and we would swap stories. All of our kids were within a few years of each other, but they seemed to do a lot of the same sort of things at certain ages. We all had walls that needed to be repainted, to cover up the marker, or pen, or crayon scribbles. There were juice stains in all of our rugs, and on most of our clothing. Our lives, at least for a while, revolved around what our children said and did, and it made up most of our conversation, well, that and our mutual husband complaints. So, I thought I was doing pretty good. I mean, I've been out of the official mommy loop for a while now, but I remember when all the little girls were somehow getting a hold of scissors and cutting their own or each other's hair. It was always somewhere around the 4 year mark, but I thought Cara and I had an understanding. The girls have never expressed much interest in sharp objects, since it seemed they understood the risks. At restaurants, they even automatically pass me their butter knives. That was something they started doing on their own. We were smooth sailing, until this week. Naturally, the event took place at their dad's house. I called him the day before the end of he weekend, to discuss pick up/drop off. Towards the end of our discussion, he tells me, "Well, you might be kind of shocked when you see Cara..." I felt a flutter of fear in the pit of my stomach, not knowing what to expect next. He explained that he had put her hair in a pony tail, per request, but she had been annoyed by the front short layers that would not go in. He said he only left the bathroom for a minute, but when he returned, their was hair everywhere. She had cut the offending chunks of hair off. When she came home the next day, and I saw her near mullet, all I could manage was, "Oh, honey..." I explained to her that we were going to have to cut it very short all over, to match the sides now. She said that was what she had wanted all along (yeah, good cover, Cara), and that she didn't like it the way she had done it herself. Learning lessons the hard way already - yep, her mother's daughter. My parents had the girls today, and I asked them to take Cara to the "place where the people cut hair" (as she calls it). It was funny, how when I first got home and saw her short, wavy cut, kind of boyish - but cute, I wanted to cry. Maybe it was because this is just another step in her changing and growing, moving away from me and into independence. Maybe it was because of my own apprehension, hoping that the kids in preschool won't tease her tomorrow. Or even worse, I remembered one little girl I grew up with, who had short hair, and how she always had to play the daddy or the brother when we played house. I wanted to cry for that. I wanted to cry, because I know she like having longer hair than her sister. I got choked up because the look in her eyes said she didn't like the haircut, that she didn't feel secure about herself. Losing that innocent, childish certainty of self. A confidence built mostly of ignorance, but precious nonetheless. I wanted to cry, but I told her she looked great instead, because I knew it was so much more than just a haircut.