Mothers of boys, you are missing out on some serious fun, and are invited to my home, any time, to enjoy the best adventure in raising girls. And that is, brushing their hair. There is nothing less dreaded, on both ends, in our home, and yet, it is a twice-daily routine that creates much drama. It can be broken down into four simple phases: The Chase, the Verbal Attack, the Tackle and the Shrieking Finale.
I don’t recall any of this from growing up. It all seems to be new, uncharted territory. For as long as I could remember, I was brushing my own hair, and from before I could remember, my mom was probably brushing my hair. I have no bad memories about this, and so I have to assume that it was relaxing and probably even induced sleep, so soothed was I from the methodical stroking of a bristly brush. But my kids didn’t inherit this peaceful tradition. Instead, it is a constant battle.
The Chase usually commences when I announce it is time to brush hair! This is always last minute, when we are about to leave somewhere and have very little time left. When I reappear with a brush in hand, it signals my kids to begin playing Hide and Seek, or to at least duck down and cover their heads with their hands, as if, God forbid, a bomb was about to land in our house.
I then have to resort to the Verbal Attack, where I tell them that a bird might accidentally make a nest in their hair, because it resembles something that belongs in the wilderness. Or that I am about to schedule an appointment for a “boy haircut” for them, or maybe just to have it shaved off. This, too, is usually unsuccessful, unless I am just looking for ways to get them even more annoyed at me. If so, then it works really well.
We then move on to the Tackle, where I think I should try to pin down the child like I do at most doctors appointments (I’m getting more skilled at that). But then, for a brief moment, my kids actually let me start to brush their hair, and no restraints are needed. But very rapidly, we regress back into phase I, The Chase, and I am running around while brushing hair. The force of the running actually does the brush work for me. All I have to do is land the brush in a good spot and stand still, and as my daughter escapes, that clump of hair gets smoothed. I hope to cover the whole head at some point, this way.
The last part is the Shrieking Finale, when the entire world knows it is hairbrushing time in our house, so loud are their screams of torture. “If you just held still and moved your hands away, it wouldn’t hurt so much,” I negotiate, between cries. Somehow, I manage to partially brush my kids’ hair, between their clasped fingers, and crossed arms, running alongside them down the halls of my house. They emerge as a wispy, poofy mess, and although it’s a little less tangly then before, a bird still might be tempted by it. It’s at this point that I give up, throw in the towel and pray that the teachers at school realize that yes, we do own hair brushes in our house, but no, we don’t know how to use them that well.
“Why don’t you guys brush your own hair?” I frequently suggest. But I am shot down. I think deep down they enjoy this special bonding routine we share.
Sarah Abenaim is a writer living in Teaneck. She can be reached at [email protected].
By Sarah Abenaim
