My Daughter’s Hair Pulling Taught Me How to Rise from the Ashes
Shortly after the start of virtual first grade, I began finding clumps of Makenna’s hair in the carpet.
When my smart, sassy daughter Makenna was two, her favorite Disney princess was Rapunzel because “Mommy! She has wooong bwonde hair TOO!”
Although she was born with very little hair, and even by the age of two, it was still quite short, she knew that it was beautiful, and she knew that she would NEVER allow anyone to cut it.
When she was old enough to actually watch the movie Tangled, I watched her happy expression dissipate into horror as Flynn Rider cut off Rapunzel’s locks, and they shriveled up into short, brown hair.
“Nooooooo,” she cried, wrapping me up in her little arms and digging her face into my chest.
She returned to that moment for weeks, like a broken record, making sure I knew just how much she didn’t like that Rapunzel lost her hair, and asking me over and over if it would grow back.
My daughter is now seven, about to enter second grade.
In August of last year, 2020, in full pandemic and shortly before the virtual school year began, I took a picture of her on the new tree swing in the backyard as she leaned back; her waist-long blonde hair nearly brushed the ground. She had it pulled back with a glittery black headband, and she smiled proudly and blissfully for the camera.
It was maybe a couple weeks after that picture that I began finding clumps of blonde hair in the carpet. I had to run my fingers through the carpet fibers to yank it out.
Two months later, her waist-long blonde locks were replaced by scraggly, uneven strands that didn’t reach past her shoulders.
It began as constant twirling with her fingers, then devolved into a repetitive motion of twirl, knot, and pull. Twirl, knot, and pull until you could tell her most frequented spots by how much hair was on the floor.
My little girl — who has NO tolerance for pain or discomfort — wasn’t hurting herself any more than I hurt myself when I brush through my thick, tangled hair.
“But, I don’t know why I do it,” she told me, sadly. “I can’t stop.”
As the reality of another year of virtual classroom without her friends set in, my social butterfly who adores school began to whine and complain. The girl who once eagerly applied herself to learning and reading began to dread it and began to throw fits before morning meetings. She cried and screamed and threw herself on the floor.
In the pediatrician’s office, Makenna’s doctor looked her over and quietly referred us to a psychologist. Many phone calls and weeks of waiting lists later, we found someone and began weekly, virtual counseling sessions.
As I stood next to Makenna in the hair salon and watched the hairstylist cut and even out her straggly hair, I flashbacked to the little girl who trembled at the idea of losing her hair, who would only let anyone trim the tips, who cried over the injustice of Rapunzel’s lost hair and lost power.
She sat in the elevated seat and looked steadily into the mirror as her treasured golden hair fell to the ground.
Over these months of pandemic, we’ve witnessed the death of so many things, so many people. I’ve experienced growing pains, trying to balance my own sanity and mental health with the needs of my children. We’ve traded old dreams for new ones.
As the hairstylist stood her up from the chair, Makenna took a couple more steps toward the mirror and studied her new hairstyle — a short bob — turning this way and that to catch every angle.
Then, she turned to me and declared in her most dramatic fashion, and with the biggest possible smile,
“I. LOVE. IT.”
My lively girl with the Rapunzel hair was beautiful, but in my opinion, this girl with the bob, the newfound gaming obsession, and the bravery to overcome old habits, is just — if not more — precious.
Because, having emerged from a death of self, she chose to say:
“That’s who I was before, but this is who I am now. It’s different, and I. LOVE. IT.”
