It often surprises people when I tell them that at the age of four years old, Eva has never had a haircut. Born with a full head of beautiful blonde hair, it has become somewhat of a trademark. Everywhere we go, even as a baby, people comment on her hair, on the pretty blonde curls that spring at the back, at the white blonde streaks in the summer sun. And through first hair clips, first pigtails, French braids and bed head, I have lovingly cared for each and every strand with a feeling of pride and complete and utter envy!!
As she got older, she would tell us that she was Rapunzel, that her hair just grew and grew and grew. And it did.
But, yesterday, after the last few weeks of tears at bath time, struggling to get the brush through the knotted ends and the exhausting task of drying it, we decided that it was time to get it chopped. And Eva was absolutely beside herself with excitement! I on the other hand was a nervous wreck!!
As they cut away I restrained myself from shouting, “Not too much!!”, “Be careful!”, “Make sure it’s not wonky!!”. But Eva sat so beautifully, beaming at herself in the mirror, and as I scooped up her first curls from the hairdressers floor, now stashed away in our memory box, I braced myself for the result….
And despite losing just four precious inches, she looked so much more grown up all of a sudden, looking at her reflection and flicking her hair. “Was that fun?” I asked her later, as she admired herself in every shop window that we passed. “Yes Mummy,” she told me, “But those scissors were very sharp. I’m glad she didn’t cut my ear off!”