Parenthood Rites

There are some pains that every parent knows too well.

Most every parent has felt the undisguisable horror and humor of their child walking out, proud, with scissors in hand and a brand new hairstyle. I don’t think any of us actually want to experience it and yet, it seems to be a rite of parenthood.

It is difficult, near impossible, to maintain my composure, staring at missing chunks and jagged edges. The missing blond curls will never grow in right again. Toddler hair is a delicate creature that a few well-placed attacks can change the texture forever.

But I can’t let my dismay show through. Not when those big blue eyes shine at me in expectance of compliments.

Smothering a smile and tears in fair one swoop, I cover my mouth and ask, “What did you do to your hair?”

She preens, so proud of her work. “I cutted it.”

“Yes, yes you did. Can you hand Mommy the scissors?”

She does and then spins in a circle, showing off the ragged layers, some close to giving her bald patches.

I bite the inside of my cheek and manage to say, “You look beautiful, but let’s leave the haircutting to Daddy next time, okay?”

She nods her head and runs a tiny hand through her butchered hair.

“Where’d you cut your hair? Want to show me?”

“Yes.” She runs ahead of me, her chubby legs leading us to her bedroom where she’s tucked the thin whisps of fine blond hair behind her toybox.

As I tug them out, feeling the light weight of her creative stylist in my hands, I remember my mother sharing tales of me hacking up my own hair and my sister’s, and the cat’s. Could always be worse.


This is an entry for

Daily Flash Fiction Challenge  (13+) Enter your story of 300 words or less. #896794 by Arakun the Twisted Raccoon