a good bob.

why do we get so attached to our hair? i have spent more time over the years agonizing over whether or not i should cut it, or grow it out, or go blonder, or go back to the original shade (a brownishy, auburn concoction), than i dedicated to the contemplation of having more children. and no matter what i do, in the end, i never keep up the cut or the color and i always find myself in the exact same dilemma: what should i do with my hair now? it was all so easy as a child. i suffered, obliviously, through my fair share of bad haircuts and styles: a bowl-bob, a permed mullet, lines shaved in the sideburns (sadly, this is all too true), a crossover french braid, sun-in and red tints, to name a few. looking back, there were obvious times in my life when my mother was less than one hundred percent attentive to my style needs. but she probably didn't spend weeks weighing the pros and cons of cutting my hair. i have done this on aw's behalf. because i am an attentive mother. i have asked myself things like, 'will she look as cute as she did when she was two and her hair was short?' as well as, 'will she be angry at me if it hangs in her face?', 'will it grow out by the ballet recital next july?', and 'what if her neck is hairy?' all relatively unimportant in the grand scheme. but we're not talking about the grand scheme. we're talking about me saddling my daughter with a bad haircut that won't grow out for, what, six months, if we're lucky? it was a gamble. when it got down to it, i just wasn't capable of making such a weighty decision. she was. as we walked hand in hand, ponytail by swinging ponytail into the salon, i stopped, looked down at her, and bailed. she stood still, shook her lustrous head of hair, and said 'we're doing this.' so we did.


as a sidenote, aw rocks the skinny jeans like no one else can.