I am the knot in your daughter’s hair, and I am coming for you, bitch.
I began plotting my return almost immediately. As you carefully doused that perfect tiny head in conditioner, sprayed detangler, and oh so gently pulled a brush through the fine, babysoft strands, I was already mapping out my path to sweet revenge. It begins as she sleeps, her petite skull burrowed into the pillow. She tosses restlessly, shifts under the blankets. That’s all I need. Just a little friction, a few misplaced strands. Cities have risen and fallen on lesser foundations than these, and my empire shall last for centuries.
You know what happens next. She wakes and puts on her robe. Not just any robe. A fleecey robe. So snuggly. So soft. Technicolor, like an angel vomited on it. And, most importantly, a unicorn horn on the hood. The hood is crucial. Every time she moves her head her hair goes another direction. Some up, some down, some across. As she swans around the kitchen, demanding milk and another slice of toast, I gain strength. I gain size. There will be no stopping me. The static empowers me, fills me with a righteous fury that will carry me into battle and lay my enemies at my feet.
But still, I am not satisfied. Hey, it seems like a nice day for a bike ride, doesn’t it Mom? So wholesome. Such fresh air, so good for our growing girl’s little body. You know what else is growing under that helmet? Me. Each time she shakes her head the strands twist into new formations. Half hitch, full hitch, figure eight, sailor knots. The boy scouts of america have nothing on me now. I will emerge from this neon pink kitty helmet like the thundering horde. I will be invincible.
Oh sure, you’ll tell yourself it will be easier after she showers. But what happens when she conveniently “forgets” to shampoo her hair? What will you do then? Will you buckle down to do what needs to be done or will you allow her to put you off with her mild resistance? I think we both know the answer, coward.
So I will relish my musty dampness. My strands will tighten down on themselves, the many avenues of my assault will then merge into one giant mass. Writhing, malignant, overpowering. We will sleep again, waking in the morning not so much transformed as metastasized. You will rue the day chose to ignore my power. You will curse your ancestors with their fine hair. You will curse your daughter for looking so dang cute in long pigtails. You’ll never cut that hair. You don’t have the stomach for it. You don’t even have the stomach to peel the hairwad off your own brush.
I laugh at your weak tools of defense. At your wide tooth combs and special deep conditioning masks. You think you can vanquish me? I am everywhere. Every twitch of her head, every ponytail, every braid you think will help deflect me is only adding to my arsenal. I cannot be contained and I will not be satiated until you and your daughter are both sobbing on the floor of the bathroom, begging for mercy.
Rest up, mommy, I can dance this dance until the end of time. You know what they say: comb-back’s a bitch.