Both of my children love the movie Tangled. Needless to say, I can quote most of it, even though we’ve owned it only a short time.
On Mother’s Day I tweeted:
“My son is playing with my hair and whispering the magic Tangled hair glowing song.”
My hair was down, free from its usual ponytail. My son, his plastic toy saw in hand for “scissors”, suddenly inspired to transform me into Rapunzel.
I think he played my “mother”.
Our exchange unfolded as followed.
Me: “Please be gentle. It really hurts if you pull my hair.”
The Tackler: “I’m trying to cut your hair and make you young so you’re a baby. Baby sister likes babies.”
Me: “Uh. Okaaay.”
A few minutes pass.
The Tackler: “I’m pulling your hair. I’m trying to make your hair even bigger. I’m making it long. I’m helping it grow.”
Me: “You can only play with my hair if you’re gentle. I need my hair.”
The Tackler: Quietly “fluffs” my hair, certain to be a perfect 1980’s stylist if only armed with a can of Aquanet.
Me: “Why are you doing this to my hair again?”
The Tackler: “When you were six you had really long hair just like the lost princess.”
Me: “I see.”
A few minutes pass as he sings the song to make my hair glow.
Me: “OW! Please don’t yank out my hair!”
The Tackler: “When it gets cut it turns brown and black. I just cut one little piece off of your hair with my saw.”
Me: “My hair was never blond. Daddy’s was. Maybe you should cut his hair.”
The Tackler: “Daddy’s hair isn’t long.”
He “styled” my hair for thirty minutes – my patience at times a mere thread, much like the tiny hairs piling up from his “treatment”.
Except for the whole “if this keeps up I’ll go bald” worry, his attention and words were just too cute – so I tolerated the less pleasant moments.
It is now a new favorite game, if I’m insane enough to leave my hair down.