The Bride of Frankenstein

Braids for my girls seem to be the bane of my existence these days. I know I should love them, since they prevent me from having to comb, condition and try and tame three girl's hair each and every morning, but I can't seem to get out of my no braid rut. Why? It all stems from a little bit of a substance that strikes fear in every mother of African American girls who get braids. WATER....

It all started with Chatterbox playing "beauty shop" one late summer evening. After all the lights were dimmed, she decided to get our hair box and make her self beautiful. What ensued was one 5 year old little girl with several rubber bands that were stuck in her hair, and rather than leave them in until morning, she thought she'd do me a favor and cut them out. She cut them out all right, right along with all her hair surrounding the rubber band, leaving little but a scant 3/4 inch of hair with which to work. She repeated this hair cutting fiasco several times, leaving me with a child that had no workable hairdo...and this was DAYS before she started Kindergarten. So much for being that cute little Chatterbox we all know and love. She was still the chatterbox, but cute???

In desperation, I decided to put braids in her hair...but the forces of nature were working against me. Saturday, when I got to the braid shop, they had no synthetic hair for use, but only real human hair. To put freestyle braids in her hair with human hair was going to cost me $170! Here were my choices...start kindergarten looking like a chemo patient? Or...pay $170?

Seven hours later, I emerged from the shop with my beautiful little Chatterbox, swinging her gorgeous locks from side to side. She was so excited to have hair down to the middle of her back. It was the first time she'd had braids this long (and this expensive)!

As I departed on Monday morning from the child care center at our gym, I cautioned Chatterbox as I had done about 100 times earlier that morning, "Chatterbox, don't under any condition, go swimming today. Do you understand?" I reiterated that same sentiment to the teenager doing childcare duty that morning, having great faith in Chatterbox, that even if her childcare provider broached the swimming pool with her, she'd be fine...she loved her brand new (expensive) locks. I went off to work without a worry. Kindergarten would be fine. Chatterbox was back to having hair which I could style and manage. All was right with the world......

....until I arrived to pick her up. What I saw when I looked at her, resembled that much abused Barbie doll at the bottom of the toy box; the one the girls practiced teasing with a comb, and the one the boys swung around by the hair. My beautiful Chatterbox had been replaced by....the Bride of Frankenstein.

What else was a mother to do but use her fingers as a wide tooth comb? I frantically attempted to smooth the tangled mess into submission, but what I received was a pile of discarded hair strewn about the floor at my feet, like an offering from the braid goddess of unsuspecting white mothers.

So, with all I could muster, I picked up the braids from the floor, while nonchalantly asking Chatterbox what had happened to her hair. "We went swimming, Mama! Are you mad?"

Poor Chatterbox. I'm sure what ensued as we drove home will be one of those times she'll remember as a grown up. It'll be something talked about during family gatherings...."Mom, remember the time you (traumatized me after you) spent $170 on braids and then I went swimming?"

What a poor white mama to do? Learn from the experience....get really good at twisting hair, and know that NEVER should you spend $170 on hair for a five year old.