chop

We couldn’t talk her into it.  She refused to cut her hair.  Not during the daily brush-and-screams, or the subsequent style-and-screams, or even the lice-comb-out-and-screams (a kindergarten tradition, apparently).  She wanted to have the longest hair in class, a title held by a little boy who knows how to rock a serious mullet.

And so, we gave up and admired her  waist-long, honey-colored locks.  But, as someone, who shall remain nameless, said, “Yes, it can be beautiful. But most of the time she looks like a homeless street urchin.”

Touche.

And then, shortly after the new year, long after we had given up prodding her,  Violet decided she was ready for a change.

Typical.

She wanted it gone.  All of it.   We researched pixie cuts, printed out a photo and brought it to Frenchy’s Salon.  (I had decided against the $8 Fast Freddies barbershop, or even the $15 Birds barbershop for this momentous event.)

Our stylist braided Violet’s hair and then brandished the scissors.  (Violet seemed calm, but notice the grip on the chair arm.)

CHOP

Then she saw the resulting bob in the mirror and declared, “No.  THAT is what I want.”  So the pixie went out the window and our stylist got to work.

She seems pleased.

Goodbye homeless street urchin.  Hello eight year old.

 

(Yes, she donated her braid.)

 

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