Tattoos and scissors

  When I got the call, honestly, it was the first thing I thought of.  "Somethings happened, Annie's ok, but..."  my mother seems hesitant to tell me the but.   "Really she's ok, but she did something." Already I know what Annie did.  It's something I've feared for a while now.  What all little kids do at one point.  I guess it's a right of passage.  Already I'm in tears, because I know.  At this point I'm just praying it's not terrible.  That it's not all gone.  Yes my little Annie cut her hair, and I'm driving (with tear in my eyes) what now seems the longest distance to see how bad the damage is.   I love my Annie, more than anyone, and I love her hair.  It's beautiful and curly and long, and I'm thinking in my head all gone.   I get to my mothers to find a pile of hair, and Annie, with super short wispy bangs and chops taken out of the curls that used to frame her beautiful little face.   Thankfully she didn't cut into the sides all the way or it would have been worse.  Now each time I look at her I have to fight off the tears because she's so proud of herself and feels so beautiful.   The hardest part of being a mom sometimes is just that.  Not showing how upset I am when she cuts her hair, or colors on the wall for the first time not knowing thats bad.   Then there's the not laughing when she's being completely serious about something and you have to force yourself not to laugh, not to smile to big.   Like when she makes up a new song and you get to see the debut performance (which is of course histerical).  She's informing you to not laugh at the doll because said doll has no arms or legs and you might hurt her feelings.  The list is endless, and so is my love of Annie.  This to shall pass right?   Her hair will grow back, I will meet the man of my dreams someday, and Annie will grow to be a beautiful woman who loves the Lord and never gets a tattoo or piercing.