We got haircuts this weekend. Hannah went first. I gave the hairdresser instructions, she demonstrated adequate understanding of my instructions, then cut off 2 inches more than I told her to cut. I wasn't particularly upset, but I know we had a whole discussion about it, complete with both of us touching Hannah's hair at the place on her back I thought it should stop. Her hair no longer approaches her back. Since it wasn't me giving the haircut, Hannah was very polite, and kept most of her negative opinion to herself. However, as the haircut progressed, I watched her scowl deepen and her posture slouch further into the acetate, jungle-animal robe draped around her shoulders.
I've been threatening this haircut for years; Hannah cries like I'm beating her every time I brush her hair. Real tears. Sometimes she can even work up a sob or two. She won't leave a barrette in her hair for longer than it takes to get out of my sight, and pony tails are sheer torture. So now she has a sweet little Prince-Valiant-looking haircut with bangs that taper down at the sides of her face. I asked her when she was finished if she liked it, and she was definitive in her response:
No. I look like Ramona.
That was true. But it's better than looking the way I imagine the scrappy kid from "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever."