I was in the bedroom the other day, having slept in a little (there are advantages to the kids getting older!) when following a brief spate of Emily screaming, Caroline walked in with what can only be described as a blonde tress clutched in her hand.
It was of course immediately recognisable as Emily’s hair.
“Did she do that herself?” I asked, thinking that she’d decided to cut it herself (which follows from a comment in the car the other day that went along the lines of, “I want a hair cut like Daddy’s!”)
Caroline said no and I immediately wondered which brother was the culprit.
Turns out that the culprit was the mix-master!, Caroline was making a pavlova with Emily intently watching, when she decided to lean in for a closer look. Her hair got caught in the beaters and her head was quickly wrenched down toward the bowl. The end result was that the clump of hair was torn from her head even though Caroline had reacted immediately to turn it off. Fortunately it didn’t manage to actually scalp her.
Our poor little girl was most upset … because she’d bumped her knee and there was some blood evident.
I don’t think she even knows that she’s got a little bald spot on her head. It seems to be there just to provide us with a timely reminder of how hazardous the kitchen can be when there are adventurous little pink things about.
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