Metal Meredith

It all had to start sometime.

Since I am making an effort not to talk about previous topics in every post lest my queasy or about to pop friends can’t take it, suffice it to say that a milestone was reached and Vivienne was rewarded with a visit to Pigtails and Crewcuts for her first real haircut. Up until now, I had been cutting her bangs myself and even did that sweet little bob she had last year. However, I am not a hairstylist and in order to avoid criticisms from peers and sideways glances from the other moms at school, I took her to the only hair salon for kids in Richmond. (I hate the name, by the way.)

Vivienne was ok until we got there, then she became the shyest child on the planet. She was excited to see the train set and the toys in the waiting area, but quickly shut down all emotion as it was her turn to pick out a chair. You see, at Pigtails and Crewcuts, patrons choose between a police car, fire engine or airplane as their chair. All of them are old fashioned metal pedal cars modified with swivels on typical stylist chair platform.

Vivienne picked the fire engine but didn’t say another word the entire time. She froze with a lollipop in one hand and an eye on Dora the entire time. She cringed when he started spraying her hair with water and nearly lost it a few times when he was brushing it out. Finally, she said a few words here and there but didn’t snap out of it until they opened this giant treasure chest of crap at the end of her cut and she picked out a ‘prize’. (*of note: You can even sign your kid up for a “Glamour Party” and host a birthday there where your child and all her (let’s be serious that I am not gender bias but come on) friends can get updo’s, manicures and pedicures and makeover..HOORAY!*end note)

My poor kid was completely traumatized until we got to Phil’s office where Cristina, Jennifer and Sara all made a big Suite C fuss over how cute it was. It wasn’t long before she was doing laps in the office and flashing poor Aaron, Phil’s employee, when deciding it was time to pee in the potty, eye-shot from his desk. She informed me several times that day that she didn’t like her new haircut.

Now, she asks to go every other day again. She actually brushes her own hair instead of screaming and running in the other direction when she caught a glimpse of the comb. I just can’t believe that at 3 years old, I had to make a decision to cut off all her hair because she wouldn’t let us brush it or continue to have the argument all the while staring at my child with Wal-Mart hair, as Cristina puts it.