It was 8:10am this morning and I heard, “Little, come spray my hair!”
“Ok, after I finish making my bed.”
What was this double dose of craziness coming from the other room? I figured I’d give it a few minutes, then go check in.
“Li-ttle! Come. comb. my. hair!”
“Ok! I’ll be right there.”
Considering how it goes when I comb Pink’s hair, I couldn’t wait to watch this unfold. From down the hall, I braced for disaster. For the screams. I was ready to jump to the rescue at a moment’s notice.
But all I heard was the sound of detangler being sprayed, and my two babies having a sweet little conversation about how Pink’s hair should be styled for the day. Pigtails? Nah. One pony.
I was about to halt things with a few simple words, “I need to do that.” But instead of stopping them, I stopped myself. I thought about what those words might mean (besides a far more acceptable hairdo for Pink at school today, that is).
Those words might have made Little feel like I didn’t trust him. And given Pink reason to doubt him too. They might have said that his act of kindness wasn’t even noticed — or appreciated. That perfection was more important than affection.
But I did trust him, because she did. And the best part? Well, it certainly wasn’t the butterfly clip holding bits and pieces of knotted, tousled hair. No, it was the giggling in the backseat the entire drive to school. It seemed that bit of morning ritual created a bond between the two, and I thought better (for once) than to break it up.
So when we walked into school this morning, we all stood a bit taller. Not because of Pink’s lovely locks (in my case at least). But because each of us was proud of the fact that Pink wanted Little to be there for her, and he was.