I’ve been a mother of two for 17 days now and I don’t know what I was so worried about. It’s easy!
The baby mostly eats and sleeps, which leaves me tons of time for imaginitive play with my 4-year-old, Viv. Why just last night, as the newborn settled in for a marathon nursing session, my big girl announced she wanted to play beauty salon. Sitting behind me on the bed with a large collection of styling tools, she got to work combing out my straight, slightly damp hair (regurgitated breastmilk really is the best conditioner). As I sat there sandwiched between my girls, I marveled at my ability to nourish both of them at once. Winning!
Until Viv stopped. No, keep brushing, it feels nice. I can’t, Mommy…
I reached back to find that Viv had rolled a super fine tooth comb into a hunk of my hair, wrapping it repeatedly in my locks until it could move no more. Any effort to dislodge the comb caused pain and breakage. Plus, this travesty was located deep in my blind spot, so I couldn’t see how to fix it.
Despite his surprising facility with tangled necklaces, my husband Dave was at a loss for how to free my hair. My friend Lisa came over and gave it a valiant effort, but no dice — though she did offer to solve my problem Sixteen Candles style. (Remember when drunk Carolyn got her hair stuck in the door and her friend chopped it off?)
It was nearing 5pm, and I envisioned having to go to sleep that night with a long, sharp comb sticking out of my head like a horror movie axe. Luckily, a local salon agreed to see me before closing time and I ran out the door.
I should point out that I live in a very fashionable neighborhood where it’s already pretty embarrassing to walk around in my new-mom garb (maternity sweat pants, clogs, baggy sweater with spit up on it). Now imagine walking into the fancy salon with a giant comb in your head. And a baby. Hot!
A few people turned and laughed and I do not blame them.
Luckily, a very kind and patient professional was assigned the task of separating my hair from the comb, one strand at a time. She was optimistic that she could complete her mission and “probably” wouldn’t need to shave my head.
Various hair salon co-workers stopped by to ogle the train wreck, give suggestions or lend a hand.
I did start to consider the merits of a pixie cut. Probably very easy to care for, and my earrings would really pop.
A full 70 minutes later, the evil comb slid free.
My scalp felt like I’d just gotten a weave. But I still had my hair. And on the bright side, how else would a newborn’s mom ever get to spend time in a salon?
So the moral of the story is…
#1 Never trust a small child with hair.
#2 And if something seems too good to be true (two kids, both quiet!), it probably is.