Tri-State Neighbor: South Dakota Farm Newspaper

As I grow older, I become painfully philosophical. It’s not painful for me. I enjoy this philosophical phase … it’s less emotional and much less stressful. The painful part, most surely, relates to those around me. Especially my daughter.

Amy would love to see me become caught up in the drama of her life. Instead, all she gets are my boring philosophical comments.

High drama happened about three weeks ago and old philosophical me refused to become trapped in the emotion. Amy called me at work one morning and, rather than a good morning greeting, yelled, “Your granddaughter has no hair!”

Excuse me?

“Because of your grandson, your granddaughter has no hair. She’s bald!” (The use of the term “your” put me on alert that Amy was disavowing responsibility for either child.)

Amy’s tone of voice indicated that the drama had nearly consumed her. As she recounted the tragedy, Tavian had found a pair of scissors and had given his two-year-old sister a free haircut. Before Amy called me, she had visited with several friends who were willing to leap into and intensify the drama. I must have been a real disappointment to her.

“It’s just hair.”

“What???”

“Amy, it’s just hair. No one got hurt. It will grow back.”

Those calm comments were sacrilege to Amy. For the past two years, a good portion of Amy’s own self-image has been wrapped up in the fact that her daughter has naturally curly hair. The natural ringlets, having grown chin length, always attracted comments.

“Look at those curls! Is her hair naturally curly?”

Amy’s tears told me that this point of pride had been swept away.

“Amy, you have two beautiful, healthy children. Hair grows back.”

Amy and the children stopped at my house a couple of days later to show me the damage. I had expected to see a skin-headed granddaughter with just a couple of stray tufts of hair here and there. Instead, when Amy pulled off Autumn’s stocking cap, I saw a lovely pixie cut with soft waves and curls.

“Amy, she looks darling. I like it better this way.”

Further sacrilege. Frankly, I had found the long ringlets somewhat overpowering on such a little girl. Her hair was always in her face because she stubbornly removed all barrettes, ribbons, headbands, and ponytail holders within five minutes of being turned loose.

Then I asked my grandson the burning question, “Why did you think you should cut your sister’s hair?”

“I wanted her to look like me.”

I was relieved to hear that he intended no malice. He was finally acknowledging the brother/sister bond and wanted them to have something in common.

“You know, Amy, I think our children are here to teach us lessons. We learn more from them than they learn from us. (Shades of Kahlil Gibran. What can you expect from someone who went to college in the ’70s?) I think Autumn has many lessons for you.”

A glimmer of realization came into Amy’s eyes. “Like … don’t put so much emphasis on physical appearance?”

Exactly.

“Well, then, what did I teach you?” Amy demanded.

“You taught me patience. You taught me how to let go of things that I can’t control. And you taught me to love people just the way they are, without judgment.”

It was not the day to share this news with Amy, but, looking into the sparkling eyes of little Autumn, I can see that the learning of lessons has merely begun. By the time Autumn is done with her, Amy will be very, very philosophical.