And that is when it happened.
Hours before, Indy had looked like this:
And now she peeked her head out of her room looking like this:
Full on mullet. Business in the front, party in the back.
I did not keep my cool. I did not do anything at all related to keeping my cool. "Your hair!" I cried. Doing my best Amy March, I went on: "What have you done to your beautiful hair! Your one beauty!"
Ok, I didn't actually call it her 'one beauty'. But I did say the rest.
And then my poor Indy ran back into her room, threw herself across her bed, and began to wail:
"What have I done to my few-full haaaaaaaair? My haaaaaiir?!? I wuined it! It's all my fault!!!"
Which made me feel pretty wretched. So I pulled her out of her room. Ayla was behind me, drawn to the scene like a shark to blood.
"Listen Indy," I said. "This happens to every woman, sooner or later. Every woman has had a bad haircut. I've had one. Ayla's had one."
"Yep," Ayla nodded sagely.
"Now you've had one." And I told her she was beautiful, beautiful, no matter how badly her hair had made mommy alternately laugh and cry.
I texted Mr. V. "Indy gave herself a fricking mullet" I said, although I may or may not have actually used 'fricking'.
He offered to fix it when he got home.
I told him I didn't think she deserved to be punished that badly.
I drove her to Lollilocks and now I think she looks like Shiloh Jolie-Pitt. We are just so hip around here. The important thing is, she loves it. She was pleased to behold herself in the mirror. She jumped out of the polka-dot chair and moved about with a new confidence. She felt she belonged in this haircut, it was clear.
Maybe because it has completed her transformation into mini-Kara Thrace?
