I Cracked

I cracked and cut her bangs.  “I can’t stand this,” I said and went to fetch the scissors from the City Hall cup on my desk that John Kalwitz gave me when he was president of the Common Council.  I have said cup for the obvious reason.  I am old enough to have been around City Hall when John Kalwitz was CC president.  I am old enough to be a grandmother after all.  I am this particular kid’s grandmother as well as grandmother to another little girl in California about whose bangs I never have to worry.

This girl’s bangs make me nuts.  I go for months.  Ignoring. Brushing them out of the way.

When they look like this, it’s like Waif Central.

Cute for 30 seconds.  And then I’m shuddering in my desire for the scissors.

Then I start the muttering, the arguments with myself.  It’s not your place to cut her hair.

For a long time when she was very little, her other grandmother would give her a bowl cut every time Alita slipped into her custody.  I loved it.  But was conscious of my daughter-in-law’s aggravation with her mother.  After all, I would have gone apeshit if my mother or my mother-in-law had cut one of my daughter’s hair.  Good f**king grief.  The gall.

Still.  I hate the hair in the eyes.  “I can’t see your beautiful face,” sounding like the invisible grandmother on the coffee cup I have downstairs.  The one with all the grandma sayings that somebody gave me…..Hi honey, don’t you want another cookie?  I think there are some quarters in my pocket for you.  Are you cold?  Here’s my sweater.

I’ve come to this realization.  Many times.  But today for sure.

I can only be kind for so long.

Then I have to cut the bangs.  And then, as I look at the picture, cut them badly.  I’d try to fix it, again with my office scissors, but the outcome is likely to be even worse.  I don’t know how to cut hair.  I only know how to end my aggravation.

But.  I will say this.

She was all smiles afterward.  She looked in the mirror and had a big smile.  And I figure it was because she could see her own little face for a change.

I’d like to be like the grandmother on the cup.  But I’m not.

Screw it.  I’m doing the best I can.  So sue me.

Since writing this post, I’ve had time to reflect.  I’m going back to my rule not to mess with my granddaughter’s hair and put the scissors in a lockbox buried in the forest.