I have always been a girly girl. Albeit, a girly girl with a potty mouth, but I’m working on this. For example, when I feel the urge to curse, I try to insert harmless words instead.
For instance, when a teenage driver from the local high school nearly plows into me head on because she hasn’t yet mastered the art of lighting a cigarette and driving in her own lane, I yell something like, “Trash can face sucking Kim Kardashian loving moron!”
Cause there’s really no cleaner synonym for moron. Also? If moron is the worst word Jane learns from me, I’ll stand on a mountain and declare victory.
But, I digress.
So I was thrilled when Jane wanted to wear my jewelry. And paint her toenails. And have “Snow White hair” every morning before daycare.
Shhh, don’t tell her it’s just a pony tail.
I’m not big on pageants, or beauty centered hobbies, but I think all women/girls need to be able to feel good about the way they look when they leave their house. Whether it’s lipstick, or a set of shades, or heck, your favorite mumu. Whatever floats your girly boat.
But after a while things took a concerning turn. She became dogmatic about not only her own appearance, but mine as well.
Every morning after she dons a skirt over her pants for daycare, and helps herself to the pink lip gloss in my makeup drawer, and examines herself in the mirror, she turns her intense little blue eyes in my direction.
She follows me into my closet.
“Wear dis dress,” she says.
“No,” I say.
“I don’t like those shoes,” she states.
“Leave me alone,” I reply.
Does this stop her? No.
Finally, I looked at her and said, “Thank you, but no thank you. I will dress myself. Go play with your toys.”
She pursed her little lips and said, “Ok. But wear the wed (red) necklace.”
I. Am. Not. Kidding.
So you can understand my lack of surprise this morning, after fixing my hair in what I thought would be an office acceptable version of a 1940’s style, when Jane sauntered into the bathroom, leaned against the sink and said, “Mom. Wha happened to you hair?”
I took a deep breath, braced myself, and said, “I curled it”
She huffed out her breath and said “It’s big.”
“It’s the south!” I rebutted.
And that’s when it hit me that I was debating the merits of big hair in the southern section of this country with a three year old. My three year old stylist. And not the sweet Rachel Zoe kind. My little darling is more of the Joan Crawford with a wire hanger kind.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to try to find a hat to wear over my “big” hair.