On Mothering a Teenager.

Abby has been aching to get her hair cut for some time.  As in...begging.  And, I'll admit, I put her off a bit because I really do like her hair the way it is.  Was.  The way her hair was.

Last weekend, I caved and told her we would be at the mall on Saturday morning and if she'd like to get her hair cut, she should probably have some pictures to show the stylist.  She was so excited all afternoon Friday, pouring over magazines and trying to decide what she wanted to do with her hair (and there was a lot of hair to deal with).  Her only guidelines were that there would be no coloring of any sort (that will be saved for when she can finance the upkeep on her own.  I am a staunch believer that the color of hair should be done by a professional only - there are too many variables involved.  And also, hair color should be that which is found in nature.  "Our new baby has green hair!" said no one ever.), other than that, I didn't really care what she decided to do with her hair.

I should have know something drastic would ensue when she showed me two relatively "safe" pictures of a medium length shaggy haircut and one super short cut.  The girl has been itching in her own skin for some time and I think she was ready to burst out of her safe cocoon and see what the world has to offer - and what better way to test her wings than with a very, very drastic haircut.  However, for a girl who's always tried to fit in and has never really rocked the boat, the short style was going to be a huge change and I tried to caution her against it, or at least work her way up to it - you know, medium cut first, and then decide if she really wanted to go short.  

But I am just the mom and she is perfectly content to assure me she knows her own mind.

My stomach sank on Saturday morning when I overheard the words, "Mylie Cyrus" and "shaved," but I sat back in my seat and turned up Dinosaur Train for Finn a little bit louder and tried to keep the look of utter shock off my face as the stylist pulled out the clippers and the scissors and went to town.  There comes a point when your little butterfly needs to either fly or fall and this was one of those life lesson moments that I had to sit back and watch unfold.  I'll admit, I would have been happier had I been fortified by another cup of coffee.  Or a martini.  Instead I tried to read a magazine and to keep my eyes from straying over to the locks of beautiful hair littering the floor around the stylist's feet.  

I'll cut to the chase and tell you it was a complete and utter disaster.  I tried to reassure her on the drive home that it just needed to be styled; she just needed to work with it to make it her own.  I tried to impress upon her that it's hair and it will grow back and in the meantime, she just needed to own it, but there were real tears and requests to shave her whole head (such teen drama) and how could she even be seen in school on Monday and why didn't she listen to me (my personal favorite).  Instead, I gave in to her request for a bowl of ice cream and a movie and told her I would see about finding someone to get it fixed on Monday. 

On Monday morning, I set about finding a fix for Abby's hair; I was hopeful I could get her in after school (we live in a small town, options are sort of limited) but the only thing available was early afternoon, right after lunch.  I pulled Abby out of school, which is something I never do, would never consider doing for a haircut, but I had a feeling that the day was going to be pretty tough for her.  When I picked her up in front of the school and told her we were getting her hair fixed, she was so grateful I thought for a minute she might cry.  She didn't say much but admitted to me that the morning had been pretty rough.  

I am so disheartened by humanity when I hear about the things that middle-schoolers do to each other.  I can only raise my small humans to treat each other and everyone else they meet, with kindness and respect and hope that it will leach out from them like the ripples in a pond.  I wish more parents felt that way.

The woman who fixed her hair did an awesome job.  It's equal parts demur and punk-rock, depending on how she styles it.  But, it is still so hard for me to get used to.  Every time I look at her, it's like I'm looking at a stranger.  I know it's still Abby - just a different version of her.  A somewhat older, sassier, more mature version.  Did she learn a lesson?  Yes - and it wasn't that I'm always right, far from it.  The biggest thing we talked about being assertive and standing up for yourself; being your own advocate.  We talked about walking away from the haters (I'll admit, I played the devil's advocate on this one telling her if kids were going to be mean to her, she should just be mean right back,  just to see how she'd respond.  She told me she could never stoop to their level).  We talked about making a decision and owning the consequences, good or bad.  

I got a two page letter from Abby for mother's day this year - full of kind words and respect.  She's growing up.  Right before my eyes, that squeaky-voiced bundle of energy is growing into a smart, talented, considerate young lady.  And I get to watch and, sometimes, participate, in the decisions that will mold her and shape her into the woman she will become.

I am a lucky mama.

Because I respect my small humans, Abby has asked that I not post any before pictures of her hair cut - even though the pictures I took on our Mother's Day hike on Sunday of her and Finn were so, so cute (she wore a hat and, I am telling you, she just looked like a fun, pretty girl).  Instead, I'll share these before, before pictures of both my kids.  I love being their mom.  Best. Job. Ever.