We had an hour to spare and it took exactly three seconds to figure out how to use it. My little Burgh Baby takes the "Burgh" thing very seriously, from the way she pronounces Pittsburgh as "Picksburgh" to her insistence on growing a mullet. I hoped that I could maybe find someone who could address the whole mullet thing before the kid winds up on some horrible random website.
Alexis has had exactly one haircut in her four and a half years of existence, but never has she had one from a professional. I was fully responsible for the mullet thing, except for the fact that IT'S HOW HER HAIR GROWS. It doesn't matter what anybody does, there is no making the front of the kid's hair grow, but the back is kinda sorta thinking about it.
Regardless, we walked into a hair salon for what was sure to be a pretty epic moment in Alexis' life. She LOVES getting pampered and I knew she would love it even more with a pro holding a pair of scissors. She climbed up into the chair wearing the biggest dork of a grin I've ever seen. She sat patiently, still as a statue, as the young lady did a little trimming and shaping. Alexis decided she wanted her bangs cut and I cringed as the scissors undid all those years of growth. When it was done, I had to admit it did look better, though. Slightly less mullet-ish, even.
As the hair stylist pulled out her blow dryer to do a little styling, I waited for the Panic Eyes to take over Alexis' face. She HATES my blow dryer. HATES. She has never once had her hair blow dried simply because she refuses to even be in a room when one is on.
The Panic Eyes never showed up. Instead, I got to see Alexis' You Are Busted, You Damn Liar Eyes because the hair stylist offered to straighten the kid's hair. I have frequently and repeatedly told Alexis that her hair can't be straightened. It's beautiful and curly and she should just enjoy it exactly the way it is.
Four-year olds are jerks, so of course Alexis told the hair stylist that I had said her hair can't be straightened. The hair stylist responded by saying, "Oh, I can get your hair straight. You just watch."
I bored a hole in the lady's head. With my eyes. In my mind. Because GRRRRR! She wasn't supposed to tell the kid that I'm a liar.
But then the hair stylist pulled out a brush and some wimpy stlying spray. "No way will that do it," I thought to myself. In my mind, the only thing that will straighten those big, beautiful curls is a few gallons of product, an industrial strength straightening iron, and possibly some nuclear weapons. I mean, I've played with them from time-to-time, and those curls only appear to be gentle. In reality, they are some tough little buggers, persistent and possibly evil.
The hair stylist carefully guided a section of curl through the brush as she used the blow dryer to alternate hot and cold air. She pulled it nice and straight as she pulled the brush out and BOING! The curl bounced right back. She grabbed the section again to give it another try. BOING! The curl bounced right back.
Again and again, she worked to straighten Alexis hair. Again and again, it instantly went back to being curly.
I might have smiled as I watched. I also might have had to fight off some giggles because SERIOUSLY, if you don't have several gallons of product and some nuclear weapons, you are not straightening those curls. In fact, I think she would have had better luck trying to make Elton John go straight.
She fought those curls for a full twenty minutes before smiling down at Alexis and saying, "It looks like your mommy was right. You have the best curls in the world and they just aren't going to go away."
MOMMY IS ALWAYS RIGHT.
Remember that, Alexis, I'm always right. Especially about your hair.
