There was a little girl who had a little curl

I honestly don't think a week's gone by this year that someone hasn't complimented Julia on her hair. It's always been her best feature; long and thick, with big fat curls that corkscrew when it's humid and spiral gently then there's not much moisture in the air. It's certainly not something that she inherited from me. I've spent my life battling with thin, straight hair that's prone to frizz, so Julia's beautiful locks are something I both covet and protect. Her shirt may be stained, her shoes may be scuffed, but by God her hair is always carefully coiffed.

Last week, I took both kids to the hair salon, Evan for a spring shearing and Julia for a semi-annual trim. Her hair had gotten so long that it stretched all the way down her back when it was wet and I hated to let a pair of scissors touch it, but it was growing in slightly uneven and was starting to look a little stringy. I knew that a trim would make a world of difference, and I was willing to part with a little bit of length to clean it up a bit.

"This much?" the hairdresser asked, holding up about an inch of curl at the bottom of Julia's hair. "Looks about right," I agreed. "I just want to clean it up. I don't want to lose any of the length." The woman nodded and began pinning up sections of hair, so I left Julia in her hands and went over to supervise Evan's cut.

Anyone who's ever been the victim of an enthusiastic stylist knows where this is going. I returned to Julia's chair minutes later to find at least 2 1/2 inches of hair lying on the floor around her. I must have gasped a little bit, because the hairdresser was apologetic. "Her hair was a lot shorter on one side," she explained. "I had to keep going." I just nodded. What else could I say? The deed was done. Silently, I watched as she blew Julia's hair dry. It did look thicker and healthier, and I knew that the length would grow back. But the curls were another story. In her exuberance, the stylist seemed to have cut every last one of them off. "Look, Mom, my hair's straight like yours," Julia crowed. I wanted to cry.

It's been a week since the fateful cut and I have yet to reconcile with Julia's new appearance. I'm still trying to convince myself that the curls are still in there somewhere. I've tried scrunching and products and everything else I can think of, things I never thought I'd do to a 4 year old's hair, to coax them along. With effort, I can corral the thick waves into something resembling her old hairstyle. On humid days, it's almost curly. But those beautiful curls, the ringlets that naturally spiraled down and puddled at the small of her back, are gone forever. Julia's just about the age that her cousin was when her beautiful toddler ringlets relaxed into a headfull of thick, wavy "real" hair, I'm now realizing. Nature probably would have taken Julia to the same place sooner or later. But her ill-fated haircut accelerated the process, and I'm inexplicably bitter about it.

I don't know why I can't get past this, why I'm so desperate to get those curls back and so distraught that I can't seem to resurrect them. It's just hair, and Julia's still looks long and lovely. She's perfectly content with the change and actually seems a little bit delighted that her hair isn't as curly any more. But I am anything but delighted, and I can't quite figure out what's at the root of my complaint. Is this a materialistic ache for the loss of something I considered beautiful? A maternal ache at the loss of my child's youthful look? Or simply resistance to change, any change at all? I keep wondering, and as I keep wondering, I keep twirling my daughter's hair between my fingers... sometimes absently, sometimes deliberately and -- disappointingly enough -- rarely with any success.