Mom da-Bomb

Rachel is never satisfied with her hair. It is gorgeous. She hates it. It is truly her 'crowning glory', the envy of all who glimpse its rich, strawberry-blond thickness falling luxuriously about her 12 year old going on 20 face. She complains bitterly and fusses with it forever in the bathroom. If I offer to help with it, there is something of a mad-dog scene that follows.

Last night she brought me an ancient collection of sponge rollers. No, they were not the same ones her sister Robin used to be subjected to every night so her very delicate, white-blond hair would be curly for school. Robin was a docile little girl who thanked mommy for the exquisite torture of making her sleep in sponge rollers so she could look pretty...Ray Ray is the caboose of five and a different animal entirely. I have not been welcome to partner with her on her various coifs. So it was an unexpected request when she handed me the bag of curlers and said, "Will you help me?"

I explained how we should probably only use the extra large ones, and then only a top layer since her hair was so thick. We agreed we wanted to avoid an afro. But she insisted on using two medium sized rollers to frame her face. I am an old mom. I am a tired mom. I obeyed my 12 year old who has no experience with rollers. At this point in life, the temporary rewards sometimes suffice. My volatile pixie was temporarily pleased with her mother...I'll take it.

In the morning, I made sure to be busy making her school lunch. Eventually, she appeared in the kitchen with the results. It was even worse than I thought it would be. I did not laugh. I had noted in an instant her very carefully applied mascara, the cute little peasant top and matching pink necklace, the new flip-flops on feet with alternating green and pink toe nail polish. Rachel's voice was uncharacteristically weak and faltering as she whimpered, "I look like George Washington..." Yes, she certainly did! I resisted the urge to compare her with a dollar bill.

As tears threatened, we hurried together for some bobby pins. The vigorous curls contributed to a tidy bun with a two-way twist, thanks to the too-tight ones pulled back from her forehead. She was fixed in less than 30 seconds, and I even heard a whispered "Thanks, mom".

That's right. You got it. Uh-huh. That's me.