In the moments after she was born, one of the first things I noticed about my wriggling, wet, baby was her thick dark hair. After she was washed and dried and we got to know each other in the recovery room, I continued to be amazed at the fluffy inch-long dark stuff. In the days and weeks that passed, Linnea’s hair was the first thing that people mentioned when they saw her. The comments became something I expected, and a source of pride.
Everyone must be awed by the beauty of their child’s hair. Initially it is so soft, more so than anything they’ve touched before. No one can deny the intoxicating smell that wafts up through the fluff and bonds mother to child. Even the mothers I know who have boys take pride in their hair. I know several little boys whose mothers let their hair grow to their shoulders despite the risk of being mistaken for a girl.
I don’t consider myself too sentimental, but the hours spent nursing my child and stroking her head worked on my heart. People would occasionally mention that her hair would probably fall out, but I denied the possibility. In my mind, it was a part of her identity. At around two months my father mentioned that her hair looked thinner, and though I continued to deny it, I started paying more attention.
At first I would find a stray hair on my hand, and then I began to notice that her hairline was receding, the nearly two-inch long strands replaced by tiny soft wisps. Not only that, but as the remaining hair grew, I found that her roots were coming in shimmering and blonde. One day my husband mentioned a bald spot growing on the back of her head, the one common to most babies. When I looked closer I noticed some spots thinning along the sides. Not only that, but I noticed her cradle-cap had come back and was worse than her first bout, this time covering the top of her head in a yellow waxy layer, and even descending to her sideburns.
Now I feel like I need to tell you, I am not a vain person. I was doing the busy mom beauty routine long before I became one. I have always been a wash and air-dry girl and sometimes go several months between haircuts. But I didn’t want my baby girl to go bald! I thought I was upset about losing the dark hair that characterized my beautiful baby. I thought nature had sent the first curve ball at the expectations I held for my new child, and that was that. Taking things into my own hands was about to be my greatest mistake.
My husband and I were celebrating our three year wedding anniversary and, baby in tow, we went out for Thai food. The waitress commented on Linnea’s dark locks and I thanked her. Trying to be personable, I continued, “but she is balding!” and lifted the long hair on her forehead to show the short patch.
The waitress then told me, “in my culture we shave the baby’s head and when it grows back it is thicker.” It was an interesting thought and her statement lingered in my mind. That night while nursing, I looked up information about shaving babies heads. Though scientifically her theory has been disproved, several cultures hold traditions about cutting hair. As I lay Linnea back in her crib, it occurred to me that at some point with all of her balding, Linnea’s hair might become so funny looking that we would want to cut it.
The next day was a rough one. My husband was home all day, but we were both stressed, trying to figure out insurance details, calling, going online, even writing a letter (who writes letters anymore?!). Based on her napping behavior, it was as though Linnea absorbed the tension. She took forever to fall asleep, and woke quickly making the hours drag by. I waited all day to find the right time to go grocery shopping (which I love to do). Eventually, during one afternoon feeding, I sent my husband, giving up my break-from-baby that is so needed on those stressful days.
I sat nursing and thinking. I just wanted to have some control, to be able to make something better. When my husband came home and put away the groceries, I shared a great idea I had come up with. “Let’s cut her hair!” I said, still in my pajamas. He looked at me and tentatively agreed. “Her hair is falling out anyway, this will just make it even!” I said, convincing myself it was a good idea.
I went to the bathroom and got the hair-cutting scissors and a comb, starting to snip at the top of her head. Of course, the more I cut, the worse it looked. Her ultra-fine hair fell through the comb and left uneven edges. I nervously joked, “it looks like someone used kid scissors.”
Digging myself deeper into a bad haircut, I continued. While I was working, Chris brought out his buzzer and offered to give her a shave. I agreed, thinking that it could erase the work I’d done.
He buzzed while I held Linnea. Her hair fell limp atop the short mint colored guard protecting the buzzing blades. Each pass cut only a small patch making long work of her little head. She wriggled and whimpered, her face turning red. It was hard to tell after a few moments whether her scalp was red from irritation, or from her straining cries. A few greasy flakes from her cradle cap came loose and rested in the light colored stubble I barely recognized as my daughter’s hair.
I was in complete anguish at my own behavior. Should we continue? Should we stop? We would have to finish eventually. My brow furrowed, and I looked furtively at Chris. “Keep going. Work faster.” I said as he paused worriedly, but Linnea continued to cry. Finally I pulled her as close as I could and turned away. Everything was short, her scalp clearly visible except for the back of her head, a few wisps at the whorl of her hair and a thick little mullet.
I quickly walked back to her nursery and calmed her, wondering all the while how I could be so selfish. I nursed Linnea and changed her diaper. As she lay, calm, yet questioning on the table, I though, “now is my chance to get it over with.” I softly turned her head to the left and again to the right, trimming the remaining long hairs with the scissors and revealing her stork bite birthmark that matches my own. In my desperation, I thought the scissors would do a better job during my second try. I was wrong.
I brought her back to the living room as we sat, a family of three. “Its just a haircut, it will grow back,” I said aloud more to myself than to Chris. I was holding back tears.
“Of course,” he replied.
“Maybe I should shave my head” I said, holding Linnea tightly and looking over to Chris.
“No! Emilie! You’ll look like Brittany Spears!” he retorted in an instant. Humor is a defense mechanism for both of us, but of course, he was right.
I continued to battle my guilt that evening in the realization that I had gone beyond rational thought in my impulsiveness. I was so glad he was there to keep me grounded. I was drowning internally.
I didn’t realize until it was over, that I did care about her hair. But did she? At three months old, she continued to laugh when her blocks fell over and smile when I sang to her. Her eyes crinkled and her gums bared in a toothless grin. It was the first time that I realized that she would be beautiful to me no matter what changed about her appearance.
The next day we buzzed off the rest of her hair in a much less eventful experience. I hoped, looking down at the soft monk-like head of my child, that I would be able to remember the lesson and share it with her as she grows. Her beauty never was tied up in her hair. Her worth reaches far beyond her appearance.
