This morning, Margaret was getting ready to go to the park with her grandmother, and we were having an argument about the order of operations. I prefer to brush her hair before applying sunscreen, because that way her hair is out of her face when I try to put the sunscreen on.
And when I had prevailed in that argument, she asked for ponytails, which are actually pig tails, because they go off the side of her head.
And once I had put those in, there was weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth because she wanted a pony tail “Wight dere, wight dere,WIGHT DERE,” gesturing frantically at her head.
I told her she had pony tails right there. On her head. Where one would expect to find them.
And we went ‘round again, with bonus screaming.
It transpired, after a few more rounds of crying and removing pony tails and then howling for pony tails, that what she wanted was a pony tail “on the back, like Grandma” (or, you know, Mommy, who ALWAYS wears a pony tail, but don’t bother noticing. I’ll just be over here with the chopped liver).
So I did my best, but it’s a bit tricky with her hair not being long enough.
Someday, she’s going to realize that there are things like French braids and chignons and other foreign-sounding hairstyles, and then we will be in trouble. Clearly I need to take a class or something.