Going to the 'Beauty Salon'

It seems to happen at some point in every kid's life: Cutting one's own hair in such a way that it looks like a drunk gardener styled it with hedge trimmers.

My three-year-old daughter, Belle, was playing with a six-year-old friend when they discovered some misplaced scissors. Her friend offered to help Belle play "beauty salon." Before that, she had bangs and long hair. Afterwards, she had no bangs and a chunk of hair missing from the middle of the back of her head. It was a sort of reverse-mohawk.

"I LOVE it!" Belle declared. Her mommy didn't, and immediately took her to a friend's house to have a stylist fix it. Belle now has a Beatles mop. Belle loves the Beatles, and her hair. She pulls it off.

Belle has been asserting herself more and more lately. Like the other day when I asked her to clean up some toys before going to the park.

"Daddy," she said, "stop being so naughty. You have to know the truth. If you don't come to the park right now, I'm going to get in the mini-van and drive away!"

"Oh really?" I said. "How about I count to three and then you clean up your toys first?"

"I'm coming," she said hurriedly.

Most people are in such a rush these days, even kids. Belle always wants to "beat" her little brother, Johnny, to get her shoes on before him.

"It's not a race," I told her. After all, Johnny just drools while I put his shoes on for him. Then he says "Shoes! Dance!" over and over like the refrain to "It's a Small World."

"I know it's not a race," Belle said.

"Good, that's settled then," I said.

"It's not a race, but I won," she declared. "I really won."

"Huh?" I said.

"I won the not-a-race," she said.