Hair Salon

The other day, at work, my phone rang. It was the girl’s school calling.

The first thought that ran through my head was hoping that everything was okay–I mean, they usually only call for emergencies.  My second thought was that I hoped it wasn’t some stupid trumped up emergency requiring an immediate pickup, only to find out that she was entirely fine, such as the nonexistent “fever” after playing outside, or the “vomiting” after someone drank too much milk at once.

My daughter’s teacher answered when I picked up. “Okay,” she began, “first of all, the girl is fine, you don’t have to pick her up or anything.”

Glad we got that out of the way.  She continued: “So, something happened that I just thought you should know about. The girl and a friend were playing hair salon with scissors, and each managed to get one good cut in before the teacher saw them and stopped it.”

“Oh,” I said, glad that that was all.  I mean, I don’t really care about that.  I know that something like that happens in an instant and doesn’t mean that they were being neglected. “How bad does it look?”

“Wellll,” her teacher said, “It’s not too bad, really.  There’s just a little hole missing over her left ear.” I thanked her for calling and went about my day.

When I got home that night, I asked the girl about it. You could, by the way, see where the cut had happened but you had to be looking for it.

“So,” I began. “I hear you were playing hair salon with your friend today.”

“Yah! I Weesa!” She said, excitedly. Lisa is the name of the woman who cuts my hair.

“Oh, you were Lisa? Who were you playing with?” I asked.


“Lucy? Did you cut Lucy’s hair, too?” I asked.

She nodded, a big big smile on her face.

“And how did Lucy’s hair look after  you cut it?” I asked.

With that, the girl puffed up her chest, got a big, proud smile on her face, and said on an exhale, “Byooful, Mommy. Woosey’s hair wooked byooful.”


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