I don't mean to complain. Really, I don't. Because I know that in the grand scheme of things, my girls and I have it well off. We all have long, straight, glossy hair that we pull up, wear down, braid, pony tail, wrap in a bun, pig tail and, in those rare moments, wrap into those tight buns à la Princess Leia. We aren't bound by the hair obligations of some (think hot combs and tight, envy inducing curls) who spend countless hours and dollars to make their locks look lavish. We need conditioner, a comb and a hairbrush and we are set.
Today my husband announced that Abby had a knot in her hair that he couldn't get out. Comb in hand, I stepped up to the plate. This was my domain...and it would take a woman, a mom, to get that knot out.
I sized it up. It was a big one alright. A knot ostensibly born out of many hours spent in a pool yesterday and a complete avoidance of a hair comb today. (Don't judge me.) Fearless, I took to the challenge like a garden hose to a forest fire. Yep, I had a better chance of getting into Fort Knox than untangling that knot. I spent an hour and a half in a fruitless, desperate attempt to untangle that matted mess. Finally, after all the begging and pleading (some mine, some Abby's) I realized that I had been beat. Then I did what only a desperate mother can possibly do at that point. I cut it out.
I don't know exactly how much hair was in that matted little ball but it was a lot. Thank goodness the knot stemmed from a section underneath the top layers of hair so the cut bits should go unnoticed. Now I'm going to go into a corner and soothe my bruised ego...and then I'm going to check to see if my request for Chris Rock's Good Hair has come into the library yet.