Chapter 6 - IVY DOES NOT WANT THE OTHER SIDE SHAVED
The urgent-care nurse asked whether we wanted a cosmetic consultation.
Ivy said no.
At home, she wore a soft headband.
Then a hat.
Then took both off because the scalp felt itchy.
The first instinct adults had was:
Even it out.
Cut the rest.
Make it symmetrical.
Ivy refused.
So we did not.
One side long.
One side shaved.
Uneven.
Her choice.
At school Monday, she cried in the parking lot.
“I look stupid.”
I said:
“No.”
Wrong answer.
She glared.
“I do.”
I tried again.
“You look different than you chose.”
Better.
She nodded.
Then:
“Can I stay home?”
I wanted to say yes.
Her therapist recommended routine if she could manage.
So:
“You can stay if you’re too overwhelmed. Or I can walk in with you.”
She thought.
“Walk.”
I did.
No bodyguards inside.
No black-suited performance.
At the classroom door, a boy stared.
Ivy touched her hair.
The teacher said:
“We don’t comment on people’s bodies unless they invite us.”
Simple.
The boy looked away.
Ivy entered.
That afternoon, she came out wearing a purple paper crown one classmate had made.
“Why crown?”
“She said princesses can have shaved hair.”
I almost cried in the school parking lot.
Didn’t.
Mostly.
Then Ivy asked:
“Will it grow?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Months.”
“Not tomorrow?”
“No.”
She sighed.
Then:
“Aunt Marjorie’s too?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
There.
A child’s satisfaction.
Normal.
May you like
I did not correct it.
Not yet.
