Stay Away From the Girl With the Crazy Hair

Oh, what a difference two kids make. There was a time…oh, who am I kidding?  There are still times, when I instantly size up a kid and make the determination that my kid should not play with them.

Terrible?  Oh, come on, you know you’ve done it, too.

You know, the kid with the runny nose, hacking up a lung, or, the loud one dragging things around.  The kid with the rat’s nest hair, that you’re sure is going to spread lice to your nicely groomed child, or the one with food all over their face.  Yea, that one.

Today, I’m pretty sure that child is my child.  Though she doesn’t have a runny nose or signs of TB, ever time I glance over at her (we’re at the library, by the way) with her wild, just won’t be tamed hair and saggy jeans, underwear hanging out, she’s either dragging some large crazy animal all over the place (sorry for the poor quality, my phone doesn’t do action, well), sitting on the tunnel, hogging the toys, talking to herself, or doing all three at once.  She’s in there, someplace, having a very spirited discussion with her new “friends”.Which, I take as a sign of a good imagination, but could easily be misinterpreted as crazy.  The hair might support the latter.

Little Lady’s hair proves difficult on a good day.  She has a crazy curl underneath and calicks galore.  For the most part, she doesn’t tolerate my attempts to style her hair, that’s why I keep it short with bangs.

Today, we were out the door before I even noticed just how badly she needed styling.  She’s beyond a brush.  So much so, that I’m considering dragging her into the bathroom, wetting her hair down and styling her under the hand dryer, but somehow I don’t think she’s going to go for that, either.

Yes, the two of us made quite a pair, this morning, at our Starbucks stop.  Her, looking all kinds of crazy, me, not looking much better with my capri jeans (also with underwear hanging out, why can’t they make jeans that don’t show your butt when you bend over?), sneakers, turquoise top, and striped red and black sweatshirt.

I’m certain I was being pitied by the young hipsters, who mentally assured themselves that one day, if they ever get old, which they won’t, they will never put sneakers on with their capris (the capris, themselves, questionable) or, let their daughter go out of the house with unkempt hair, saying things like, “Mom, my name is Sulala.” In response to trying to get her to leave by calling her by her real first name. Yes, that is what Sulala said to me.

But, whatever.  She is a happy girl, and a healthy one, too, not to mention smart. The hair will fall in line, eventually, I hope.  As for me, well, I don’t have any excuses.


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