The Difference Between Boys and Girls

I am thinking that the large and cavernous differences between the boy species and the girl species will become more pronounced the older they get. I was forewarned by so many people at the prospect of taking in three girls. I was told to hold on for the ride, 'cause girls are so much different than boys. I am not sure I am totally convinced...yet. So far, from what I have observed, they are just drama with accessories, and noise with dirt.

There is ONE difference, however, that cannot be overlooked, and/or minimized. One that actually has caused me stress, guilt, helplessness, and inadequacy.

HAIR.

At our house, when the need arises for hair to actually get "done", the clippers come out. It's time to buzz it off.

With girls, there is shampoo AND conditioner, brushes, product, styling, barrettes, clips, extensions, styling, updo's, down do's, spritzing, stying, elastics, flowers, colors, coordinating, styling, heating, spraying, opinions, styling, braids, bands, beads, bangles...and more styling. Obviously, the task of styling hair gives me palpitations.

The first morning of hair duty, I was informed by my charge that I needed a spray bottle to spritz down and control the fly-aways during styling. When my one and only spray bottle showed up on the scene dead and broken from lack of use, I was forced to improvise. I wandered aimlessly around the kitchen babbling to myself, in hopes of finding something "waterish" to help calm the nerves of the nervous patron in the "styling chair". Any hopes of putting my eight year old victim at ease were quickly dashed when I rounded the corner with an over-sized ceramic cereal bowl, FULL of water.

"Are you just going to dump that over my head?" she asked timidly

"If I did, would it help speed up the process?" I retorted

She left for school with a single pony in her bangs, a little bit damp, and a whole lot happy to have escaped with her life.

The 6 year old proved to be a little less picky, and a little less terrified at the hands of her caregivers inadequate skills. Or so I thought. Morning three, she announced she was heading downstairs to do her hair. I asked if she wanted me to come down and help her out. With VERY wide eyes, she shook her head violently and flew down the stairs.

Hey, I openly admitted my severe lack in the department of quaff art before my friends even entrusted me with their precious, hairy cargo. I was plenty forth coming in admitted that there was a good chance she would be returning to three bald noggins. I am stellar with a set of clippers. Rubber bands and clips kinda stress me out.

Wow. My son is one lucky BOY.