In the end, it’s just hair and it’s growing on me

I have no one to blame but myself for the fact my daughter’s hair is now a shocking shade of pink.

I sanctioned the idea.

I even paid for the dye. The only thing I didn’t do was remain in the house for the actual application. Instead, I went off to my book club for a few hours of adult conversation, leaving the dye in Molly’s hands, with her father as her assistant. By the time I returned home, a few random streaks had somehow taken on a life of its own, leaving Molly with what looked like a pink lace mantilla atop her very dark hair. Recall Anne of Green Gable’s attempts to dye her red hair and you’ll begin to imagine the transformation.

Molly’s desire to pink up came as the gorgeous dark purple streaks for which she’d plunked down significant babysitting earnings at the end of the summer were beginning to fade to red. She was ready for an update. The first- time around had been so satisfying. The woman who streaked Molly’s hair was young, hip, and tattooed and pierced in multiple places, and she gave Molly a cautionary talk about the down side of exotic body adornment. It was worth whatever the streaks cost as Molly emerged from the salon with a much more cautious approach to life, or at least to getting her eyebrow pierced. You get what you pay for, though. This time around, the streaks applied at home looked, well, different.

In the discussion that ensued from the new look, I consoled myself that, at any given time, there are countless families stressing out about children’s hair.

Just think back to your eldest child’s first haircut. The sentimentalists among you will likely have that cherished lock tenderly stored away in a baby book or maybe in a pewter trinket box. There are probably also photos. Then think about your second child’s first haircut. The details may be hazy, and so might the photographic record. Why?

Children who aren’t the firstborn often receive their haircuts not from the barber or even from mom or dad, but from a brother or sister motivated by anything from a desire to test out new scissors to a healthy dose of rivalry, brought on by the fuss over baby’s first curl. A variation, of course, is the self- administered haircut. Any time you see a child with tooshort bangs you can bet he or she has taken a pair of scissors in hand and ended up with a hatchet job that has required a professional to fix.

( The one exception, of course, is the need to chop off hair because it has become entangled with gum or sticky candy or so thoroughly wrapped around a comb that it will never come free.) The first story our oldest ever brought home from kindergarten was about how the boy from down the street took cutting and pasting to a new level, giving his glossy brown curls a healthy trim during language arts, much to his teacher’s dismay.

Shool brings with it all sorts of new hair related challenges. It might be the horror of a note that someone in your child’s class has lice, or the greater horror of a note saying your child has lice.

Lice have taken such a hold in

schools these days

most of us are familiar

with the notices that

clarify they are merely

a nuisance rather than

a health threat.

That puts them in the same camp as the tangles so many fight with at bath time, an almost unavoidable hazard for children with long hair.

I would say girls with long hair, but as the mother of a son who swam against the fashion tide for years, keeping his hair long when all about him had short, bleached surfer cuts, I won’t be sexist in my assumptions.

I also use the past tense deliberately, because after close to 10 years of long hair, Jake amazed the family last week by appearing clean shaven, with his hair very short. The difference was so startling I did a double- take, especially because such a drastic change must symbolize something I haven’t figured out yet. As for Molly, as the initial shock fades away, the new look is growing on me. It’s really rather fetching. She and her father are now musing about how some blue streaks might look. My next book club meeting is in December.

I’ll keep you posted. The Minivan Years appears twice monthly. Catherine Mulroney is a Toronto journalist, author and mother of four. Send email correspondence to: catherine_mulroney@hotmail.