In recent months, all I seem to do is nag Abby to brush her hair. She walks around half the time with snarled, out-of-control locks, and by the time I pin her down and brush it out myself, it's a tear-stained ordeal. This morning was the worst, though. She woke up with hair that had practically dread-locked itself. That, I decided, was most certainly that. No more was I going to wonder who looked at her and thought "is that child being raised by wolves?"
Off to the hair salon today, after a half day of school, under the guise of "mommy-daughter day." Also known as, "ambush bob cut." With no trace of shame, I guilt-tripped her into donating her hair to charity, and when that only got me to 75% acquiescence, I threw in an American Girl outfit. She looked at me with narrowed eyes and said, "American Girl doll, and you've got a deal." Sigh. What could I do? I came back, "only if you don't like it."
Afterwards, she was delighted. She kept running her fingers through it and couldn't wait to see what it looked like with barrettes, or with a headband, or just tucked behind her ears.
"Do you like it?"
"More than I thought I would! A lot, actually!"
"When do I get my doll?"
And so, I dealt the negotiator's blow: "But you like it."
She was trapped. She knew it. I knew it. The American (Girl) people knew it. I told her she could certainly have an outfit for her existing American Girl doll, and that Daddy and Mommy would discuss another doll.
Something tells me, though, she's got a doll coming.