Brushing Holly's hair

Holly, at the age of 7, does not particularly like to have her hair styled. Nor does she want to do it herself. What she will consent to do most mornings when I tell her to “go-brush-teeth-‘n’-hair” – it seems to be a one-word command in our household – is scrabble at her scalp for a couple of seconds with a brush and then scoop her hair into a pony tail, or use her fingers to separate it into two pieces and call it pigtails, despite a part in the back that looks like a cartoon lightning bolt.

Other times, she isn’t even willing to do that much, just sticks in a barrette or a headband and goes through the day with a partial rolled-out-of-bed look.

Fortunately, her shoulder-length hair is almost straight and smooth enough that she can get away with it. But as her mother, I prefer to see it meticulously combed and pulled off her face to show her sweet little features. All mothers feel that way about their children’s hair and faces, I imagine.

This morning, Holly was in a more compliant mood than usual. While she stood on the bathroom stool brushing her teeth, I picked up her brush and started very gently brushing her hair out with slow, careful strokes, and to my surprise she didn’t object. I love brushing Holly’s hair. It gives me a sense of order and a sense of control, and it’s just so satisfying to see how easy it can be to make a transformation: from a flyaway mass of assorted pieces going in different direction to a soft, shiny cascade, brown with dark red highlights shimmering through. When she lets me brush her hair in the morning, I feel as if I’m sending her off to school prepared for the day: neat, shiny, organized. As if by being groomed, she’s any better equipped to face the world than she is with messy hair.

She really isn’t, I know that. But it gives me the sense that I’ve effected some small change, made some small gesture to make the path ahead of her a little easier to negotiate.

And so with a few extra minutes before we head out for the school bus, I brush Holly’s hair slowly, rhythmically, gently tugging out the tangles at the ends, almost hoping she doesn’t realize I’m doing it or she’ll protest, and then I kiss the top of her head and wish her a good day. I can’t ensure that everything will go smoothly for her once she leaves the house, so instead I do what I can: make sure her hair is tidy and neat, falling around her shoulders like satin, a reflection of the extra time we had together this morning, calm and quiet and harmonious as I brushed and she stood willingly, smiling at me in the mirror.