I saw this in many parenting books: how the time a mother spends combing her daughter’s hair is a special time, where ideas are shared and feelings expressed. It’s a beautiful gesture of the intimate bond between mother and daughter. It’s a highly recommended activity that can be shared.
Well, those authors never met my oldest.
The kid HATE HATE HATES to have her hair touched, let alone washed or combed. I’ve seen my wife struggle for almost five years now. It’s never a quiet warm intimate moment; it’s a battle for survival. Screams, winces, knots, vows (“I’ll never let you touch me again!”) and threats (“I’ll have to cut your hair REALLY SHORT!”).
This is one area that I’ve stayed away from, for the most part. I’ve never liked the comb all that much, and I prefer to do nothing with it after it’s washing in the morning. I usually in fact shave it off in the summertime, and I’ve offered that option to my daughter, to! When I was in sixth grade, my teacher pulled me out of the classroom and combed my hair. I’ve always hated her for that, and it’s made me very reticent to be party to what seems to me some form of torture my wife must do to our child.
I have when necessary gone into the breach and combed her hair. We even had a good period when she was about two or three when we’d have a little water fight to get each other’s hair wet. But generally, It’s been my wife’s cross to bear. And it’s not been easy.
Last week, after I took her out to the movies, I had to give her a bath and wash her hair. We managed both without much fuss. And while the combing was a struggle, it was done, and my wife was impressed with the results.
This week, my oldest told my wife that she wanted ME to comb her hair from now on!
Okay, I admit it. I’ve got a smug grin on my face right now.