|Okay. See? Here she looks like a girl!|
Sometimes, being thrifty has its limits.
When I was eighteen, my Mom taught me to cut hair.
She thought it was a skill I would need as I contemplated starting my own family.
The brave lady used herself as my working model.
Let's just say that, for several months, my Mom's hair was . . . interesting.
And leave it at that.
Her bravery was rewarded.
I learned to cut hair.
In one style.
Moving forward several years.
My Husby and I were blessed with three sons.
All of whom had the same barber.
I got quite proficient at boy's haircuts.
And fairly proud of myself.
We all know about pride, right.
After three sons, our family increased in size once more.
By a daughter.
I should mention, here, that my sisters both knew how to do hair and fussy, 'pretty' stuff.
I had been raised in the barn.
With the horses.
And, for some reason, missed out on that talent.
I didn't realize my lack until the doctor laid my new daughter in my arms.
My exact words.
It was then I realized that being born in the center of the family, with the boys, and spending all of my waking hours and no few of my sleeping ones in the barn, had ill-equipped me to deal with a girl.
I muddled through.
Fortunately, she mixed in with the boys as easily as her mother had.
And was gleaming bald till she was two.
That gave me time to work through some of my other inadequacies before I had to tackle the whole 'hair' problem.
But, finally, inevitably, the hair grew to a length that required either styling.
I opted for what I knew and fetched my scissors.
All was well.
Or so I thought.
At this point in time, our family was engaged in providing 'Family Dances'.
It was fun.
One evening, several young boys ran up to the booth and informed us, loudly, that our son had just gone into the girl's bathroom.
I stared at them.
We didn't have any of our sons with us.
And our daughter was . . .
I learned to do hair.
And also to dress my daughter as a girl.
But that is another story.