on braids.

When she was a baby - when she was a toddler, for that matter - she was bald as could be. I’d hold her and burp her and smell her head, trying my best to seal that scent in my sense memory. I couldn’t smell that head enough. I didn’t know scent was such a part of me.

But then again I’m human. So. We all have five senses, etc.

Years later, she finally grew hair. It was a light blond, then a dirty blond, feathery and wispy and worth the wait. These days, depending on the light, there’s red in it too. She’s a little girl. Little girls’ hair is the true inspiration for highlights at a salon. But this we know.

This summer she decided to grow out her bangs. It surprised me. And I wasn’t sure I was ok with this move. I loved her bangs. I TRIMMED her bangs (one of those pandemic necessities). Her cherub face with a solid plank of bangs - the memory alone makes me ache. The cuteness of it all.

But she was certain. And who cares anyway, right? What’s the worst that could happen? She gets sick of the grow out phase and chops them? She grows them out for 18 months then wants bangs again? I can live with the outcomes to these questions.

When I was little, my hair was dirt brown and wavy in an unruly way. I couldn’t control it. Humidity was my sworn enemy. Beautiful girls had straight hair. Cool girls had permed hair. 80’s girls (read: every white girl) had bangs. Except me. I had none of these. 1. I’m not sure that straighteners were even around way back when in the olden days. 2. I’m sure budget factored into the No Perm Rule. 3. My mom was certain the cowlick framing one side of my face would make bangs impossible.

(Now, of course, I know those decisions were layered. Now, of course, being a mother myself, I see my mother’s “no’s” came from a place of love. She loved me as is. Just the way I was. A lifetime of poker straight hair made her marvel at her mini-me who had waves for days. She admired classic beauties, and fad styles such as the terrible perms were not good enough for her daughter. Mothers and daughters - the key ingredients for Complicated.)

After much, relentless pleading - I did get bangs. But there’s a catch. For fear of that crazy cowlick, I got half bangs cut. No, you read that right. Half a forehead of bangs. You guys. Have you ever heard of such a thing? No! You haven’t! Because it’s not a thing. But it was on me! The ultimate compromise. They waved to the side. The cowlick waved to the other side. You guys. Half a forehead of bangs.

Really puts a perm in perspective.

In middle school, I got a full forehead of bangs. And I curled and hair sprayed that cowlick into perfect submission. It took me 30 minutes a day. I’m beginning to think we gave that cowlick far to much power, who’s with me? Do you know what I can accomplish in 30 minutes these days? More than big bangs.

At the time of this writing, I’ve had bangs for six years. They’re great and need no hair spray. I got them cut when my daughter was about a year old. The former stylist with pink hair had shaken her head decidedly “no” when I brought up the idea after my wedding. I was surprised at her reaction. After middle school, I’d grown them out and they didn’t return til my twenties. But I actually LIKED those photos of me. I was living in Brooklyn growing out a pixie cut and they were the hipster bangs of the early aughts. Thick, side swept, coming from the far back of one’s crown.

Anyway my new stylist - Russian, thin, gorgeous with an accent - she thought bangs were a good idea. So we did it.

I’d never gotten more compliments in my life. My husband couldn’t keep his hands off me. I asked him how he’d fallen in love with me withOUT bangs. I was 100% serious.

But I digress.

My daughter decided to grow out her bangs and chop her hair to shoulder length. I said ok. I remembered all the “no’s” I’d been told in my life. If you’re at all like me, and you don’t get to practice choosing for yourself, you might realize years later that that makes it really hard to trust yourself. That you might do a lot of compromising when you needn't. That you end up with half a forehead of bangs when you shouldn’t. Anyway, when I finally chose the haircut I secretly wanted, the world reflected back in kind, seemingly cheering me on.

There’s a larger metaphor at play here but let’s move on.

After a summer of shoulder length and ever longer bangs, she decided she wanted a bob like mine. I know: at this rate, she’d be a baldy again by Christmas. Wasn’t growing out bangs change enough? But also: was she emulating me? Was me being her mom, was her love for me somehow morphing into the tried and true notion that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery? Or, was she inspired by the popular girl in kindergarten? Both very strong possibilities.

Anyway, this time I was really apprehensive. My hair is bobbed out of necessity. When a fine-haired woman wears a top knot for an entire pandemic and doesn’t see her stylist for ten months, there’s a certain amount of clean up to do.

This was not my daughter’s situation.

Nevertheless off we went to my stylist, and my daughter gave the instructions as I watched flanks of golden/amber/auburn hair fall to the floor.

Turns out it suits her. She knew.

But now the bangs needed wrangling because they were decidedly below her eyes, yet not long enough to wrap behind her ears.

So I started to braid them in an effort to sweep them off her face.

I’m not sure where or when I learned how to braid. I’m not even sure who taught me. But I feel confident in saying with utter certainty that I can French braid beautifully. Am I a decent cook? Fifty percent of the time. Can I sew? Decidedly no. Can I give directions, or follow them for that matter? Get out of here; I need to take a puff of my inhaler I’m laughing so hard.

But French-braiding? I’m fucking fantastic at it. I used to braid all my friends’ hair, my dolls’, my cousins’ hair too. The result? Always gorgeous; always satisfying. A recovering people-pleaser, it really hits the mark what with all the “thank you’s” and making people feel beautiful and French-braid fancy.

And now, every morning after she’s eaten breakfast and we’ve studied spelling words, she sits at the kitchen island and I braid.

Braiding has become a ritual of sorts. It takes focus and attention, and each day I try to improve upon the day before. Her hair has waves (but not my unruly ones), it’s fine and thin. Thick, coarse hair is actually the ideal hair for French braiding. But when you’re a Braiding Master braiding thin, fine hair merely adds a charming challenge into the mix (this is beginning to feel like a pitch for a French-braid book deal).

If I don’t focus, those short bits of bangs slip out of the braids and I have to start again, is all I’m saying.

Sometimes we do a sweet braid around her hairline. Sometimes she chooses two braids that end up in wee piggy tails (let’s remember I’m braiding a bob). Sometimes those two braids combine in a wee ponytail. We rotate and mix it up.

When I pick her up from the school, the braids are gone. She’s taken them out at some point in the day. The next day, I start again from scratch, honing my skills. Practicing braiding, for which I’m already spectacular at. And yet, I find myself reaching for new heights, searching for room for improvement. Curious almost. A ritual is something you choose to return to, no end result in sight.

But before the braiding begins… before breakfast or the sunrise, she wakes and joins me on the couch. And we cuddle. I wrap her in my arms, and I sniff the top of her head. And in those few quiet moments every morning, time doesn’t exist nor does age or even hair. She is 3 weeks old, she is 4 years old. She is my baby, she is her own person. We are napping on the bed in the old house, we are snuggling on the couch at the new house.

Talk about ritual.

The sniffing of the head never ended. Her scent continues to calm me, to fill me with that ubiquitous ‘mother’s love’ I never fully grasped til I grasped her.

Life is fleeting, just like bangs and braids. Even perms are impermanent. I know all too well how it can all change in an instant. Perhaps knowing this is why I’m so surprised that here we are, nearly seven years in, and I still get to sniff that sweet crown.

It’s all fleeting and impermanent. Except sometimes it’s not.