“Piper, what’s this?” I need to have the phrase tattooed on my forehead. I held between my fingers a lock of hair I’d fished out from under her bed.
“It’s Barbie hair,” she answered quickly. A little too quickly.
I studied the shiny brunette clump. “This is not Barbie hair, Piper! This is your hair.”
“The dog chewed it off while I was sleeping,” she lied through her teeth.
I noticed it right then, a little bald spot. Not hidden at the nape of her neck, and it wasn’t in a discreet spot behind her ear. She had lopped off a good chunk of hair, smack in the front of her hairline.
There was already regret in her eyes so I just played along, “The dog chewed your hair off, huh? Tough break, kiddo. Too bad he didn’t go after the hair in the back of your head, though. You’ve got a gnarly bald spot right in front now. But hey, Daddy’s going bald and he looks cool.”
She looked thoroughly horrified.
Ever since “the incident” Piper has been combing her hair over so far that Donald Trump would give her a pat on the back. I’m pretty certain the dog won’t eat any of her hair again–or that if he does, he’ll do it in a more discreet area of her head.
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