When I was a little girl, your grandma never allowed your auntie, or I get a haircut. She'd point to one of the ubiquitous Sears photo studio shots of us and our glorious manes, exclaiming, "You want someone to chop off all of this beautiful hair?!... The answer is NO!" Ugh.
But, I rebelled. Second grade picture day rolled around. I just *knew* the super-short, asymmetrical bang look would work for me. And I went for it. Your grandmother was none too pleased. At five, I promised myself I'd NEVER make my children endure such brutal oppression.
Flash forward thirty years. It's bath time. You two 4.5-year-old divas are reenacting Mama Imelda's epic rendition of La Llorona at Ernesto de la Cruz's sunrise spectacular.
Then a pause.
"Hey, moooooom! When can me and sissy get our hairs cut?!"
Time to uphold my childhood promise. We went for it. Found example images. Despite the disappointment of not being able to get longer hair, or change your hair from curly to straight (and vice versa) we trudged on.
Ru, as usual, your inner *spa girl* took the reigns. You sat up on that chair, said "I'm the qweeen of the wuuwld!" and let the professional do her thang. Delightful. Every few mins since you've done a little hair toss, mixed with a duck face lip pucker. Big success.
Vera, you cracked me up. Always suspect, I was SURE you'd end up changing your mind the second we walked into the shop. Your excitement to have a new 'do won out, however (thank GOODNESS). Anyway, even though you were letting her cut your hair, your face said something closer to, "Is she sure, I mean REALLY SURE, she knows what she's doing?" But, every single time I pointed the camera at you, you smiled a huge sh@t-eating grin. Eventually, I got a shot of your classic "Vera the Skeptic" expression. It was all worth it. You hopped up and down for joy after checking yourself out. Too good.
All in all, it was a lovely day with you newly-coiffed cuties.