Flattery

The other night, after our shower, Anya was watching me brush her hair.

“No, like you,” she said, indicating I should part her hair on the side, like mine. So I did.

“I should trim your bangs,” I said. “Get them out of your eyes.”

“No!” she cried. “No cut hair.” And started flapping at me to drive me and my implements of hair wrangling back.

“Okay, okay,” I conceded. “I’ll leave you be.”

As I put away my brush, I watched her carefully pick up a chunk of her bangs and position it so that it fell in her eyes. Just like mine is always doing, because I tend to put off trimming my bangs for at least a month longer than I should.

This child is such a little fashionista. I buy her outfits, and she mixes and matches the pieces to come up with even better outfits. I buy her shoes, and she pairs them with her outfits in surprisingly sophisticated ways. I don’t often allow her to play in my makeup, but at 4 she is every bit as good with lipstick as I am. (Which, admittedly, is not saying much. But it almost always stays on her lips these days.) She shops for jewelry and handbags like other kids shop for toys. The fact that she wants her hair to look like my overgrown mop speaks more to her opinion of me than any words or gestures ever could.

Makes me think perhaps I should give her a slightly more attractive role model.

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