School Picture Day
Posted by Shelli Altopp Miller at 10/21/2008 8:28 PM 
Categories: Relationships, Shelli Altopp Miller
Tags: Children Family
Categories: Relationships, Shelli Altopp Miller
Tags: Children Family
Helping a preteen daughter design her school picture day hairdo is about as futile as keeping a 10-year-old son's belly full, yet that is precisely my current state of affairs. The son is easily assuaged with a small arsenal of healthy snacks while the daughter is impossible to placate on matters of fashion and hairstyles. Not to mention, a picture of this hairdo will be on display for all to see, for eternity, in the school yearbook.
Bless her heart, I knew she was desperate when she asked me, a life-long member of the wash 'n go club, to do her hair. I can count on one hand the number of times my hair has seen a hair styling implement in the past three years. Yet, who else could she ask? We have no family nearby and we're too new in town to knock on doors and ask for such personal assistance. So I plow boldly ahead.
It's the night before school pictures. Studying a picture of another girl whose hairdo my daughter is hoping I can duplicate on her head, though the other girl's hair is longer and of a different texture, she explains she wants all her natural wave subdued, a pouf here, and curl just at the top of her head. The curling iron is hot but my daughter's hair is still wet. Confused, I ask if she needs to dry her hair first. She explains she needs some kind of pomade to smooth through her hair, which I don't have, and it's too late to run out and buy. Not without drama, she proceeds to dry her hair, straightening it with a brush. We then sit in front of her big mirror, me poised behind awkwardly wielding a curling iron, while she explains again the magic I'm supposed to weave. Her words and gestures guide me through unfamiliar motions and I thought I did everything exactly right. I tried so hard but it didn't look like the curling iron had any effect. She brushed her hair roughly, her beautiful, thick, shiny hair that disgusts her, and I try to validate her beauty, but my words fall on deaf ears.
The next morning, school picture morning, she dampened her hair and dried it flat again. She seemed content with the results. I wonder, did she really need my help in the first place? I was utterly useless in the end. Raising kids has always been like fumbling around in the dark for me, feeling my way toward the light emanating under the door crack and then just as I reach to turn the knob, the door flies open and hits me in the head.
Bless her heart, I knew she was desperate when she asked me, a life-long member of the wash 'n go club, to do her hair. I can count on one hand the number of times my hair has seen a hair styling implement in the past three years. Yet, who else could she ask? We have no family nearby and we're too new in town to knock on doors and ask for such personal assistance. So I plow boldly ahead.
It's the night before school pictures. Studying a picture of another girl whose hairdo my daughter is hoping I can duplicate on her head, though the other girl's hair is longer and of a different texture, she explains she wants all her natural wave subdued, a pouf here, and curl just at the top of her head. The curling iron is hot but my daughter's hair is still wet. Confused, I ask if she needs to dry her hair first. She explains she needs some kind of pomade to smooth through her hair, which I don't have, and it's too late to run out and buy. Not without drama, she proceeds to dry her hair, straightening it with a brush. We then sit in front of her big mirror, me poised behind awkwardly wielding a curling iron, while she explains again the magic I'm supposed to weave. Her words and gestures guide me through unfamiliar motions and I thought I did everything exactly right. I tried so hard but it didn't look like the curling iron had any effect. She brushed her hair roughly, her beautiful, thick, shiny hair that disgusts her, and I try to validate her beauty, but my words fall on deaf ears.
The next morning, school picture morning, she dampened her hair and dried it flat again. She seemed content with the results. I wonder, did she really need my help in the first place? I was utterly useless in the end. Raising kids has always been like fumbling around in the dark for me, feeling my way toward the light emanating under the door crack and then just as I reach to turn the knob, the door flies open and hits me in the head.
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