She has begged for a month to get a pixie cut.
She was tired of being hot.
She was tired of hair flopping into her eyes when she ran.
She was tired of fussing with barrettes.
But I wanted to make sure it wasn't a whim. And I suppose I needed time to convince myself and Ander and Dubbadad that it IS her hair.
To buy some time, I bargained with her (all the while assuring her that even if she was bald I would think she was beautiful and amazing). I told her she could get a good trim, and really shorten up her bob, and if after a few weeks she still felt her hair was annoying, and if she still felt certain she wanted a pixie cut, well, then, she could have one. So after gymnastics we headed over to the Sunset Boulevard branch of Rudy's Barbershop (where Alexander got his very first haircut), and got a good trim from a great stylist with a short curly bob.
It was a super-cute haircut. We celebrated at the cafe around the corner.
Aliza loved the haircutting experience, but was in no way dissuaded from her goal of getting a pixie cut.
I stalled for two more weeks. I showed her pictures of myself at roughly the same age with what ended up being a very curly and not-so-flattering pixie. She correctly pointed out that there have been great leaps and bounds made in the curly-girl hair product market.
We talked about the fact that people would most certainly mistake her for a boy. She said she figured that would happen, but reminded me that somebody had even thought she was a boy when she was wearing a skirt back when she had her bob-with-bangs. She said she really didn't care. She knew she was a girl.
We took her picture with her hair pulled back, uploaded it to the InStyle "Hollywood Makeover" site, and 'tried on' Audrey Tatou's and Keira Knightley's and Emma Watson's short haircuts. Aliza loved every (frustratingly un-downloadable) iteration.
So yesterday we printed out three pages of pictures of Audrey Hepburn and several modern-day, pixie'd, brunette beauties, and -- after a quick change out of her sweaty gymnastics togs -- we went back to Rudy's on Sunset.
We signed in and waited. And waited. We went to the cafe for a snack and cold drinks.
Finally, we strolled up to the counter at Rudy's to check out our progress on the waiting list, and a bespectacled 20-something gent (straight out of a casting call for "Silverlake Hipster") walked right into Aliza as he approached the sign-up sheet. The collision caused Aliza's go-cup of chocolate milk to explode all over her shirt, spattering a tiny bit of chocolate on the guy's arm. He grunted huffily, arms held out to the sides as if he was covered with chocolate milk, obviously expecting an apology. Aliza (who was in fact dripping with chocolate milk) blurted out an "I'm SO sorry!" before I could intercede. I was only able to say -- loudly, in his direction as we dashed to the restroom -- "Oh Aliza YOU do NOT owe ANYBODY an apology. YOU weren't even moving." Back on went the sweaty gymnastics togs.
Through all this, Aliza never lost her nerve about the haircut (while I had bigger and bigger butterflies in my stomach).
We took a "before" picture.
And then her name was (finally) called, and she was in the chair, showing her printed-out pictures to the stylist, and insisting that yes, yes, she was sure this was what she wanted.
I tried not to hover.
She chatted away to her stylist, who gave her all sorts of tips for caring for her new 'do.
(I emailed pictures home to Ander and Dubbadad so that there was no shock factor, and so that Ander could be coached a bit about what not to say.)
She LOVES it, and has already found all sorts of ways to wear it.
Of course, she also says she plans to grow it out all year, so that she can cut it all off again next summer.