In England They Call It Fringe

Shea's got some crazy hair. When she was born it was nearly jet black and super shiny, like a pretty little Japanese baby's. We thought it would probably fall out and in its place she'd grow hair closer to her brother's hair color. We were wrong.

After some time in the sun it has lightened up a bit, but it hasn't fallen out and has even begun to curl a bit on the ends. It even seems to have grown at a doubletime pace in the area in front of her eyes, which encourages John to call her his little sheepdog.

To help Shea see better, we usually pull her hair up into this funny fountain style, which keeps it out of her face for a few minutes--until she realizes that she has the power to pull the hair tie out herself, thus breaking free of her shackles of feminine oppression and letting her locks flow free like a '70s Wella Balsam advertisement.

So, in an impetuous moment using my blunt, everyday stationery scissors, I cut her some kickin' bangs. Adorable, blunt, little Bettie Page bangs. And I'm loving them. She hasn't bumped into as much stuff as she used to, but she looks like a big girl now, and the messy little ragamuffin baby I was so used to has been suddenly replaced with a tidy little toddler.