Jules received all kinds of mixed messages from Santa this year. Things like a Ripstick that yelled, "YOU'RE JUST A KID!" and then a blow dryer, flat iron and make up that screamed, "JUSTIN BIEBER IS HOT!" Either way, a terrible thing to do to a kid. Stupid Santa.
Too young to shave? That's what I told her. And I didn't want to let her—let's just be clear as an ice pellet on that point. But when your daughter says, "I think I looked pretty today at church. Lots of people were looking at me...but I think they might have just been looking at how hairy my legs are"...well, pretty much you have no choice. Otherwise, you'll be paying for the therapy.
So today, I went in to get my hair done, and she pled to come along and have her hair trimmed and layered. I smiled condescendingly, patted her head and said no. Then, as I sat there in the salon chair, I was overcome with lunacy and called to tell her to get ready—I was going to bring her back and let her have some soft highlights and layers.
She went BAT-POO CRAZY!
I led her back to the chair, and returned to the waiting room, occasionally glancing back to see how she was doing. She's sitting there, dressed in black plastic cape and foil, and I suddenly realize what's happening.
"NO, WAIT! NOT YET! I DIDN'T MEAN FOR HER TO GROW UP. DO OVER! DO OVER! I CALL DO OVER! I JUST WANTED TO WIN THE FUN MOTHER AWARD, BUT I REALLY DIDN'T MEAN IT! GIVE HER BACK! GIVE HER BACK TO ME! NO MORE PRETTY. PUSH DOWN ON HER SHOULDERS, REALLY HARD....LET'S TRY TO STUNT HER GROWTH. JUST A FEW MORE YEARS OF THE UGLY STAGE. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE.......don't let her be big. I'm sorry. Oh, I'm so sorry. It's too late. I didn't realize. I'm the one who gave her mixed messages. It was me. I told her it was okay. But now.............please, let it begin again. I'm not ready for Juju bees to be gone."
So my little girl has crossed over the line. Or, quite possibly, was pushed by an overanxious mother, rushing to see what was on the other side. And it wasn't what she expected.
I find myself in a state of miserable joy, my friends.