This was the day we decided to just bite the bullet and trim the front part (I am hesitant to say "bangs" because this hair tends to sproing up off her forehead, rather than lying down flat the way I picture bangs doing--not to mention the fact that there is a long-running prejudice against bangs in my own family, stemming from a long ago incident in which my own grandmother cut some janky crooked bangs on me while I was staying with her while my mother was in the hospital for minor surgery, after which she taught me, if I ever saw my grandmother with a pair of scissors in hand again to declaim, loudly and firmly "My mama does not like bangs!"). But for a curly-haired girl whose afro was starting to dangle into her eyes, some sort of proto-pseudo-bangs were clearly what was needed. Nervous as heck we were, but we got out the towel and the scissors and the tumbler of water to dip the comb in, and all went well. Mabel was as good and calm and mildly interested as could be, and the end result was pleasing. And I quite like the polaroid Bill captured of the moment as well.
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