Shiny, Happy Baby Curls

Mia and Lauren sat in my parents' jacuzzi bathtub, washing the pool water and sunscreen from our afternoon.  While the toddler happily dumped cups full of water all over the place, I soaped up her sister's hair, wondering if the ratty tangles meant it was finally time for her first haircut. 

Four and a half years old, and her hair has never been cut.  The babyish curls at the ends are still sweetly tender and fine, while the long, straight hair above tells tales of a growing girl. 

Conditioner, I decided.  All we needed was a little conditioner, and those baby-fine curls would last a while longer.  Calling out to my dad, I begged for some 'cream rinse.'  That term from the olden days (ha), when Farrah Fawcett's feathers ruled the styles -- I guess we all cling to the past in some ways.  Me to my daughter's baby curls, and my parents to the fancy name of a simple hair product.

"Now Mia," my dad whispered, "This is your Nana's special cream rinse....so special that she only lets the very most special people use it."  Mia's eyes widened as her smile cracked open.  She giggled with excitement, stealing a glance at her occupied sister: there would be no sharing this sea-green conditioner -- it was only for the most special little girl.

"Can I smell it?" she wondered.  Her loyal servant -- Grandpa -- flipped the cap open and waved it under her nose.  She giggled again, ready for the magic to begin.

"Do you know what this does?" my dad continued.  "It makes your hair so soft and shiny...it'll shine even in the dark.  Your hair will shine like the stars!"

By then, Mia's excitement was ready to manifest itself in huge splashing bathtub waves, but we calmed her down enough to rub the conditioner into her wet hair.  She swam around a few more times before I rinsed her off, and sure enough, those rough and tangled edges of hair were silken and slippery once more. 

Wrapped in towels and ushered into the bedroom, my sweet-smelling girls tried to jump on the bed while I tried to wrangle them into their clothes.  Soon, they found dolls or tiny boxes full of treasure (or, sewing supplies to us mortals) and played quietly. 

I didn't want to go home.  There's some comfort about sitting quietly in the house I grew up in, listening to the pretending voices of my daughters at play.  I walked past Mia at her sewing-treasure, and began brushing her wet hair.  Happily, I noticed the ease with which I could comb through her hair, all the way to its ends.  I began playing with it, letting it wrap and fall through my fingers: wet strands of silky weight.

Inspiration hit.  I gathered pieces and began french braiding Mia's wet hair.  (Or, as close to french braiding as I can get...which isn't very close.)  Over and under and scoop and repeat.  Soon her hair was a mess of braid, but cute in its own way.  She ran off to the mirror, simpering and fawning around with her newly fabulous coiffure.

"You know, Mia," I said. "If you go to bed with your wet hair in a braid, you'll wake up with curly hair!"

She was instantly sold.  And I thought, If she has forced curls from a braid, maybe I won't be so attached to those tiny baby curls on the ends of her hair...

At home, I sang and rocked little Lauren into her bed while Mia was supposed to be laying quietly in her own dark room.  Tiptoeing away from one room, I peeked into the other: Mia was racing back to her bed from the trail of light seeping out the closet door.  She buried her face between her pillow and blankie, baring her braid to the sky. 

"What are you doing, baby?" I whispered.  She wiggled her body and made no move towards speaking to me.  Worried about her dramatic turn, I had to figure out the problem. "What's wrong, sweetie?"

Mia was silent for a minute.  Then in the darkness, muffled by her pillow, she spoke: "Is it shining, mama?"

I was stumped.  What...?  Was what shining? 

I stroked her damp braid, feeling the bumps and folds in the dark, making my way down to the already dry ends.  Her tiny wisps of baby-curl wrapped around my fingers, and I remembered. 

"Oh, sweetie...Grandpa was just pretending about the conditioner.  Your hair...it will be shiny in the sunlight!  But in the dark..."  I bent down to kiss her exposed cheek, to sniff her hairline, to whisper condolences if she was heartbroken. 

But she only laughed.  "That silly Grandpa!  He was using his imagination!"

Relieved, I smothered her cheek and neck with kisses, holding tight to her baby-curls all the time.  "I love you more than all the shining stars in the sky, my sugar-love." 

Mia fell asleep quickly, possibly dreaming about glow-in-the-dark hair and shooting stars.

And I walked into the living room, wondering how I'd ever, ever manage to give her a haircut.  She'll sooner grow shining hair than I'll want to cut it off.