The school where Feisty Pants attends is a school within a school
that is separate from her home district. She is in a specialized program
designed for disabled children that places an emphasis on independence and
mobility. It's called the MOVE program. If you are fascinated, you can google
it. I am too hot and tired to remember what the initials stand for at the
moment. (It's 80 degrees and muggy this evening. All you summer lovers can
officially bite me.) Since it is in a county wide educational setting, the
vocational programs are also taught on her campus. This means FP has access to
the cosmetology class at her school. (Cue dramatic music and sound of
thunder.)
Feisty Pants has always been obsessed with hair. She would
hang holding onto mine as a baby. When she was a toddler, I once cut my long
hair to a shoulder length bob. When she figured out I had done so, she gave a
dirty look and smacked me. She LOVES getting her hair done (or even played with),
unlike her sister who thinks anyone touching her hair is committing a violation
of the Geneva Convention. When FP was an infant in the NICU, I would often
come in to find that they had shaved some new part of her head (for the IVs) so
I have always been hesitant to have it cut. But Feisty Pants- who can hang out looking in the
window at the cosmetology class ALL day if they let her- had a few ideas of her
own. Something she can control on her own? Pretty much when she wants? And
it involves HAIR? /Insert favorite expression of maniacal glee here/
So, when she has been good, she is allowed to go make a
hair appointment. First, it was chopping off the length to get a cute bob. Then
she wanted a pixie cut. I think the school was hesitant to allow her to get
too wild. They probably didn't want anger a parent. But I am probably not
most parents. So on her last permission form I wrote "think rock star -it is
just hair". So then she came home a with a slightly edgier pixie with pink
streaks. And a belly full of giggles. Then, two weeks ago she came home with
purple hair. Today, she came home with a few more purple streaks and almost a
mohawk. She is happy. Pleased with her 13 year old bad ass self. Full of "dig
my hair, you wish you were as cool as me" attitude.
In fact, she is so happy that I don't have the heart to
tell her I had pretty much the same hair cut when I was seventeen. (She looks a lot better in it, though.) So any of you guys
around from back then when dinosaurs roamed the earth, don't tell her. It will be our little secret from my favorite rock star rebel.
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