Amusing Commentage at the Dare Household
Today, I was brushing my oldest daughter's hair (she's six and hates having her hair brushed). I asked her how she wanted me to do her hair for the first day of school Monday. She told me she wants lots of thin braids like her friend from Kindergarten, Serenity, who is African-American. We are, uh, not. I began to try to figure out how to do that to my daughter's very long, straight hair. "It takes a lot of brushing," I said. "Do you really want me to do that to your hair?"
"Yes," she says. "It's got a lot of pretty beads."
So I'm committed. She wants rows, we're gonna do rows. As I'm sitting there, hoping there is an Internet page to teach me how, she chimes in with additional instructions.
"Mama," she says, completely serious. "People won't be able to tell me and Serenity apart, so I want you to make sure you give me different color beads than her."
I love that she's growing up in a place where diversity is the norm.
"Yes," she says. "It's got a lot of pretty beads."
So I'm committed. She wants rows, we're gonna do rows. As I'm sitting there, hoping there is an Internet page to teach me how, she chimes in with additional instructions.
"Mama," she says, completely serious. "People won't be able to tell me and Serenity apart, so I want you to make sure you give me different color beads than her."
I love that she's growing up in a place where diversity is the norm.