Allison's brief career in cosmetology

When Allison was born, she had enough wisps of hair to comb into a semblance of neatness after each bath, much as her siblings did. But for some reason, the hair at the nape of her neck would never go quite straight--it was always wobbling around unevenly. I checked the comb--perhaps one of the other children had been chewing on it or something. But no, the teeth were perfectly even. As her hair grew longer, the nonconformist hair turned into soft curls, and eventually light brown ringlets cascaded down her shoulders.

One day in the spring when she was three or four years old, Allison located a pair of scissors and--snip, snip--took out the ringlets, and a fair amount of the hair on the sides as well. Chagrined, I marched her to the haircutter, who achieved some damage control--at least, until she got her hands on the scissors again, and reshaped her coif. Ouch. Another, less successful, repair job ensued. Allison was persistent, and once again found a pair of scissors and attacked her own hair. This third assault resulted in Allison, at midsummer, sporting a Peter Pan hairstyle, the top layer unavoidably uneven.

That was Allison's last foray into haircutting. I don't know if that's because I was better at hiding the scissors, or if she couldn't find any more hair to cut.