Why every mom should shave her daughter's head at least once...

(Let's just pretend that those last four weeks of non-blogging didn't happen, eh?)

Flashback: Easter week. Genevieve comes home from 1st grade with lice. Not good. Boxes and tubes and cans of lice removal chemicals later...the lice persist. But not in any way that makes sense...nothing there, then *BAM* the boys are back in town, or hair rather.

Roll forward: End of school. Genevieve still has the bugs. And miraculously Izzy does not. Until...

Roll forward: Grammy's house. Lice everywhere. All over both of my little girls. Somehow, in the way that only the Florida ecosystem can, the bugs have multiplied and spread and are infesting not one but both of my princesses. And here is the rub: they have great hair. Not thin, straggly nasty left-over-from-infancy baby hair, like lots of kids do. They have thick, smooth, shiny, beautiful hair.

It's just...full of lice.

I have always thought that God has a special place in His heart for mothers. And if the coffee mugs/crocheted samplers/pot holders/ugly sweatshirts hold true, He really really likes grandmothers. Case in point...my mom.

Now not only has that woman had her circadian rhythm turned from that of an empty-nester to that of a mother of two school-aged children practically overnight, she has willingly chosen to dive head-first (sans helmet) into the endless laundry, demands, whining, mess, and nurture that those kids demand. She and my step-dad stepped up to take care of G and I for the summer so I could go to sleep-away college for the summer.

And what do I do? Unbeknownst to me, I send them not one but two girls with lice.

Fast forward: Dire straights. The shampoo isn't working. And since the girlies got my hair and not the thin crap from their other DNA contributor, this is where the rubber meets the road. Or rather, where the buzzer meets the scalp. After multiple internet searches (Who doesn't trust Dr. Google?) and frantic calls to the pediatrician, it's time to shave. And if you're wondering if simply buzzing to a #1 works, you're wrong.

Picture this: two tanned little girls, smiling, happy summer kids, with shiny, white scalps. Cue the tears, all the way around. My strong, seemingly unshakeable mother has to shave the hair off of her only granddaughters. No body is happy, even though this will surely signal the end of the infestation. (They still love her, if you were wondering. We are a family of tough broads, and nothing holds us down.)

Present moment: The strong Florida sunlight is coming through the window, falling on the delicate white hair growing on Izzy's shoulder. And it isn't just growing like any old hair. Nope, this hair grows in intricate patterns and swirls and designs more beautiful than any tapestry or paintbrush stroke on the most priceless of canvasses.

Did you know that body hair has cowlicks and follows hairlines and contours too? You can almost see where they were knit together, along each seam of hair that is normally invisible. Covered by bangs, little bits of the last day's worth of food clinging to the lengths of hair, all concealing this amazing beauty. I had no idea that they were built so delicately; to look at their summer bruises you would never know that each inch of their heads, faces, shoulders, and backs were so beautiful in design and so unique.

I feel like I have fallen more in love with them as little Bald Eaglets. I can see their strength and unwillingness to be defined by their hairstyles as they go out in public with 'boy haircuts'. They are dumbfounded when the lady at the gas station (who is short of hair herself, mind you) asks, "Are they little boys or little girls?".

My girls have been forced to break other people's stereotypes in our fight against lice. They aren't defined by other people's expectations of gender presentation. And I dare someone to speak against them.

After all, we know a few thousand lice looking to move...