There wasn’t enough of it at first. Not for quite some time.
Her father fretted about it just a bit.
His baby girl had hardly any hair.
Granted, nobody ever questioned her gender. Her searing blue eyes matched her brother’s but her features were all girl.
By the time she was two-years-old or so, I could pull together a very small pony tail. More of a collection of wisps, gathered ever so carefully in a tiny hair tie…maybe a small hair clip holding the castaways that were too short to be gathered.
And then, it grew. Her hair got longer and longer, and gathering up a pony tail was easy. It wasn’t her favorite style, but I could coax one out of her before a soccer game or a day at the pool.
Until she decided to cut it off and donate it to someone with cancer.
I was in awe that this tiny little girl would willingly part with her hair. The same hair her father and I were certain would never grow in without that characteristic male-pattern-baldness look we had come to adore.
Her new bob was adorable. She was happy, her hair was easier to manage and life moved on.
And then, slowly…her hair grew back. She still preferred it more medium-length, not too long because it got in the way of climbing monkey bars and swimming and playing soccer.
She always loved to play.
But time marches on.
Mothers grow older, schedules get tight and Monday flows directly into Sunday if you aren’t careful.
I watched this little one of mine walk away from me today…towards the high school soccer field, where the newly chosen freshman team is meeting to practice.
Pony tail swinging confidently, head held high and the world at her feet.
I miss that little girl with the wispy little pony tail.
But I still see her now and then.
And today, I am thankful for pony tails.