Just a Trim? No, Thank You.

I can't bring myself to cut Sophie's hair.

I don't even mean in a drastic way. I mean even a harmless little trim.

Her bangs fall shamelessly into her eyes, day after day, in a testament to my stubbornness on this particular topic.

Ben has been bringing up the subject more and more frequently.

Just a quarter of an inch.

-------[blank stare]--------

An eighth of an inch. You won't even notice.

Then what would be the point?

It will grow better. And it will lay better.

Oh aren't YOU just Mr. Style Expert all of a sudden.

I'm not sure why I'm so insistent on keeping her unruly locks in their current state of pandemonium. Maybe it's because with her hair in such disarray, she's more like a toddler to me. Every time we cut the boys' hair, they look noticeably older. Perhaps I'm not ready for Sophie to start resembling a pre-schooler, with perfectly brushed and neatly styled hair.

Maybe it's because I was a tomboy, and never a girlie-girl. And Sophie's inner tomboy is hard is deny. (Even though it is, admittedly, coupled with a love of all things princess. And when her fancy nail polish was washed away by the chlorine in a neighbor's pool, she looked down at her hands in dismay and pleaded, "you make me pink again?")

But she is a rough-and-tumble kid, no doubt about it. And I like that her hair reflects her semi-chaotic, carefree attitude. Her unkempt state portrays a messy lovability about her that, somehow in my mind, captures her spirit.

I'll give in some day. I told Ben, when she's three, I'll cut her hair.

In the meantime, she is my princess of mayhem.

And I love it.