Most every Saturday morning it’s the same scene: After a hard run with the chicas, I race in the door, sweaty, disoriented, hungry–sometimes just as Hubby is gathering up his keys–and I must immediately pull up Doodlebug’s hair into a tight ballet bun. The exactness and patience it requires is just too much for someone who hasn’t had her coffee or shower.
I wonder which is more likely…that Hubby could learn to do the hair, or that I could start running home faster?
And my fix didn’t last through class this morning.
This is part of the reason I’m glad my dancer opted to cut her hair short – and it was all her choice.
I am embarrassed to admit that I had this concern at one point after we found out Baby #2 was a girl: If she takes ballet or gymnastics, will I be able to style her hair into a tidy bun or a neat slicked back ponytail? I mean, I can’t even do my own hair! I’m starting to understand why my mom kept me in a Dorothy Hamill haircut for so long when I was younger.
I hear ya, Megan! And I, too, had the Dorothy Hamill–unfortunately it made me look just like my brothers!
Oh, I was a ballet girl. I had those lovely snoods, too. And it was all mom all the time — until I learned to do it myself.