The Battle of the Mullet

Mullets. I talk about them on this blog almost as much as I talk about pig-tails. Since Day 1 I feel like I've been on the war path with Mullets. Born with a "Party in the Back" attitude, Grace has been plagued by the Mullet. 

It took me three months of business bald in the front, 1987 party in the back before I couldn't take it anymore and subjected Grace to her first haircut.

With trimmed locks, I thought "My work here is done." and we moved on. A new a beautiful even head of hair was just around the corner, or so I thought.

 The Mullet didn't give up. It laid low and struck around 18 months.

Bound and determined to show the 80s who was boss I wielded some scissors and took action. The results were exactly what I hoped and in an act of triumph I dusted my hands of the mullet. "Be gone, you are not welcome here!"

It was obvious that I didn't mind cutting my child's hair. I had no attachment to baby hairs, especially ones that grow at different rates. But, that was just my preference, and to be honest I think I was in the minority.

Recently, I have felt like Grace's hair was getting longer in the back. It started to look poofy and bulky. I kept telling myself that I would trim it and from that point on let her hair grow as it wanted. Some days I thought it looked fine. I would go back and forth.

Yesterday I felt like throwing caution to the wind. Why the heck not? I grabbed the hair cutting scissors that came with Aaron's buzzer thing, got Grace down to her diaper and started cutting her hair in the bathtub. My scissors hesitated before I made the first cut. It looked like a lot, I wasn't confident or completely sure. I took a deep breath and snipped. There was no turning back. I held the hair between my fingers, like all the hair dressers I'd ever seen cut my hair, and cut away. I slipped into some parallel universe of cutting hair where there were no regrets and no qualms about how much hair was being cut. I checked things out, fed Grace lunch, and put her down for a nap. I still felt good about everything. When she woke up, reality seeped in real slow and inside I began to panic. Her hair wasn't just trimmed a little, It. Was. Short. Really really truly short.

I reasoned with myself that it wasn't as bad as I thought. That now it would finally grow in the same length. The justifications were lame and totally useless. I had turned my little girl into a mini toddler-version of Justin Bieber and I knew it.

When I saw the above picture of her in the purple jammies the day before I cut her hair, I wanted to cry. Cry big crocodile tears. Her golden locks didn't look poofy or bulky or mullet-y, it looked cute, and adorable and girly. A huge mistake was made and I had no one to blame but myself. I laid awake for about 2 hours last night freaking out about it. What have I done? Although I wanted to hide everything and pretend that it never, ever, happened, maybe even tape some of the stray hair back on, I knew I couldn't. I'd post pictures of Grace, take her to church, and people would wonder, why on Earth did she do that. My response? Because I'm an idiot.

I officially announce this as my retirement from General in the Mullet Battle militia. I will not take another snip. She will just have to look like Rapunzel for the rest of her life.

As with everything, Grace remains un-phased and couldn't care less if she tried. Which makes me a little less mopey and down on the situation. For now, I'll wait for those little hairs to grow back.

In the meantime, please send happy hair growing thoughts to Texas. My sanity needs them.