Hair Brushing

“Noooo! Leave me a-wone! Go away, go away, don’t touch me,” the scraggly haired little girl screams as she runs away to hide.

Behind the bedroom door. Under her sister’s bed. In her brother’s closet. Terrified. Trying to shrink out of sight and become invisible from my view.

I am the little girl’s mother. The one she runs from.

This scene haunts me, like an old, childhood fear of being separated from my mother in a department store. My own daughter, sobbing in hysterics, was afraid of the terrible pain she believed was going to be afflicted upon her. She did not trust me enough not to hurt her in this moment. My mere purpose, as her mother, is to protect her; keep her safe from harm and provide unyielding comfort and a safe harbor to guide her through life! Yet, in these otherwise insignificant moments, my daughter looked to me as her persecutor. Her source of emotional agony and mental turmoil.

This horrific event reoccurred inevitably, on a daily basis- like a glorified satanic ritual between mother and daughter. As soon as I would open the bathroom cabinet to gather the hair brushing supplies, my little girl would run off in search of a hiding spot unbeknownst to Mom- The Maniacal Monster of her self-induced waking nightmare.

I spent more time then it took to complete the rest of the morning routine, coaxing her to come out and be brave – tough it out for five quick minutes. Bribing tactics failed miserably. Pleading only left me frustrated with her stubborn resilience. Cringing at the ear-piercing screams emanating from the twenty-five pound sack of air which was my daughter, I felt like the monster she saw me as, trying to forcefully hold her down just to brush her hair.

I could not understand why my dress-loving, pink-obsessed, Cinderella-favoring daughter did not care whether or not her hair was as tidy and kept as those Disney princesses she adored so much. Why she thought it was so painful to brush her hair when I was extremely careful to be ever so gentle with her head.

The torture continued on, as the power struggle raged between us. For twenty minutes every morning and night, I felt like I was trapped in a portal to Motherhood Hell. The moments leading up to and following this ritualistic bodily assault by way of detangling spray, wide tooth comb, and soft-bristled brush, would never give a hint at the trauma we endure. Many mornings I have spent salting my coffee while she bangs her baby dolls’ heads together.

Seven weeks into the school year, I received an opportunity to volunteer in my pretty little headcase’s classroom. I was able to see these children as they saw themselves: messy hair, wrinkled clothing, juice-stained t-shirts, grass-stained jeans, faded gym shoes, dirty faces, sticky hands, and all, these kids did not care a bit. They were there to sing. To learn. To play with one another as they were, with no greater expectation than to laugh, be silly, and have fun. No more, no less.

Then it dawned on me.

This battle of wills between my daughter and I, was merely a battle of Mom’s will. Alone.

My desire to fit a mold that doesn’t fit anybody at all, was the source behind the haunting hairbrush trauma. Not my daughter’s unique sensitivity to sensations on her scalp which most others would find bothersome, at most.

I came to the realization I was failing my daughter by not validating her feelings. I was dismissing her perception of pain and forcing her to endure unnecessary torment for my own selfish desire to fit a mold not of my design. Key word: unnecessary. All of this nightmarish drama was completely unnecessary. So what if her hair was a tangled mess at times?

Then and there, I decided to let it go. Decided to put away The Maniacal Monster Mom.

One day, when she’s trying to sneak out of the house, well, The Maniacal Monster will have to make a reappearance; for old time’s sake. Until then, into retirement my evil counterpart must go. There are so many more battles to take up war against, to expend my limited stores of energy on, anyhow. Like sleeping in our own beds through the night and keeping our clothes on in the house when guests come over.

My adorably charismatic, independent, spitfire of a daughter now rocks the worst case of pre-dreadlock stage bedhead her preschool has ever seen. Our mornings are easier and brighter without the hair brushing demons haunting our routine. Life has never seemed so peace, love, and Woodstock-like before, but it has been a welcome change for us both. We just go with the flow, embracing each glorious moment as it comes.

I owe it all to my hippie-haired little girl and her preschool classmates. They gave this Maniacal Monster Mom a lesson in mindfulness and conformity. In living and let live. In finding balance by breaking the mold. Sometimes parenting outside the box is the only thing you can do… unless, that is, you like being haunted by waking nightmares. Then, by all means, have at it. The Maniacal Monster Mom is all yours for the taking.


Kristina is the SAHM of four rambunctious, silly, and too smart for their own good children. With big dreams and little luck in life, writing is her passion. She runs a Facebook page, The Daily Rantings of an Angrivated Mom, to keep her sanity above ground and support her blog, The Angrivated Mom, which chronicles her journey to insanity and beyond. You can also find her on Twitter or on Instagram.