Knotted Up

One of the things us hooray-worthy moms often do is allow our children to do something they ask to do, when it directly benefits us. Don't you know, they will ask if they can paint your nails, massage your feet and so on, right? Alright, so the really young ones will do that...maybe once in a blue moon. And whether or not you let them depends a lot on how much the favor is going to be great for you and how big of a mess they can possibly make. That's straight mom101 logic.

Often, my sweet Bball Girl will ask if she can "do" my hair while we are watching tv, or while I'm working at my desk on the home computer. Usually I will offer a huge "YES!" It's like a head massage. She gets the water spray bottle, some brushes, some combs, and so on. And because my hair is thin, straight and below my shoulders, basically all she can do is brush it, comb it to this side, then flip it to the other side, soak it in water and repeat. Works for me. Love the brushing and the combing. The wet papers and area that results, not so much, but it is worth it.

Just as often, Youngest sees Bball Girl asking to do this and every single time, he thinks he is 2 seconds too late. As soon as she asks if she can do my hair, it never fails he says "shoot! I was just about to ask that." We know that he wasn't and his little brain just wished he would have thought of it first. On the rare occasion when he does ask first, I first usually wonder how I was fortunate enough to have him remember it at that moment and second usually tell him no. He's a boy who likes to take very single toy and turn it into a bungee cord, tied up and twisted around. Not many of his toys have remained in their original state. All around his room you can find toy soldiers and action figures, hanging by a little plastic hand...or even a little plastic neck, tied to a shoestring, roped up and dangling from a light switch, dresser knob or window ledge. Usually there is a car wrapped up in there somewhere too. Because as Youngest tells me, the "man needed to have a getaway car."

A few days ago Youngest recalled that I had been denied his repeated request to do my hair. Finally, I gave in, thinking I had told him no so many times, what could it hurt? Well, Bball Girl felt just like your hairdresser might when she walks by a salon and sees you sitting in another woman's chair. Oh, so not happy. There were many dirty looks and under her breath comments about how he wasn't actually going to "do anything," because you know friends, only SHE knows what she's doing...

A few minutes in, Youngest is spraying away with the water bottle, soaking my face, as I'm sure what his exact goal. He's got a couple of combs, including a fine tooth comb that I typically use for parting pieces of the girls' hair when it is my turn to be hairdresser. All of a sudden, I feel Youngest hits a knot and keeps pulling. I recall this clearly because I don't have hair that knots. Its too thin for even that. I reached back and pulled the comb out and re-combed so we wouldn't have this problem again. Few minutes later, Youngest is busy as ever when he reaches another knot. Friends, I reach back to repeat the problem solving effort and discover that there is an entire section of my hair that is now forcefully knotted around this fine tooth comb. As in major knot. If I had to be realistic I would say that the hair was knotted around this comb at least ten times. In retrospect it would appear that Youngest hit a knot and began his famous "let me tie this thing up" move.

It rapidly dawned on me that I now have a problem. I tried from my seat right there in my bedroom to loosen the hair and pull the comb out. As The Hub sat on the couch and his eyes got wider and wider. I now realized I had a big problem. I rushed into the bathroom and used two mirrors to discover to my horror this wasn't a problem, or a big problem, this was a "get the scissors and cut it out" problem. Friends, I simply do not have hair that can afford to let go of even one strand willingly. Totally consumed with panic I returned into the bedroom to get the spray bottle and try to soak this bad boy loose. Youngest said "can I do your hair again." To which I growled at him "Don't. Say. A. Word." I think he got the message.

I fled back into the bathroom and tried unsuccessfully to pull and tug. I have never seen a knot like this before. Every tooth of that fine tooth comb was buried beneath a mound of knotted up hair. What in the world? The Hub comes into the bathroom to find me with tears rolling down my face, picturing the very scare reality of having to chop off a section of my hair. Super frustrated and a little panicked, if I must admit it. God know how long it has taken for this thin mop to grow this long. Are we serious right now? I was astounded. God knows I can't afford to lose any hair, who could this have happened. The Hub's question was even better. How could Youngest do this and I know feel it? I promise, I have no idea.

No less than 15 minutes later The Hub had the kitchen shears out and was literally cutting tiny pieces of the comb out of my hair. Yes, you better believe I was watching him in both mirrors to make sure not a strand of hair was going with it. Comb tooth, by comb tooth that little fine tooth comb flew in every direction. Little pieces of black plastic all over the sink, but thankfully no hair. The Hub, with his big hands, worked and worked at that knot until finally...finally...the last quarter of an inch of black plastic was left in my hair.

All the while, I had stiffened up, not willing to cry like quite such a baby, wondering what I could do to get that Youngest for his latest deed. The Hub with a look of pure shock and determination on his face. The only words spoken were the repeated question from The Hub, "how could you not feel he was doing this?" and "have you ever tried to get a tight knot out of a shoelace?" Yes, and I know that feeling of just wanting to yank it out of frustration and making no progress for a long time. I get it. My poor head of hair. And because there is just so little of it, there was nowhere to go. Hair just mounded up, wrapped tightly, with absolutely no end pieces in sight. There was no vision of where the hair pieces ended. This, friends, was not good.

Eventually, after a long struggle my hair was lose. The Hub and I breathed for the first time in a long time. Only then did he look at me and say he thought he was going to have to cut it out. I may have hit him if he said that while we were in the mix of this drama. I'm happy to report that I let Youngest live. Next time I saw him, first words out of his mouth were "I'm sorry." Good enough for me. Not ten minutes later, he says "so...can I do your head again." Never in your lifetime buddy. Ever.

These are the war stories us moms live to tell about. I am a soldier. Having survived, yet again, another blow to the momhood. We press on, ladies...we press on.