My girls had the big hair bows. I loved the Sam Moon store, if for no other reason, because they sold a colored assortment of hair bows. You could buy a strip of twelve of them for twenty dollars. 

I remember the days of hair fixing. I'd let them sit in front of the TV so they would be more subdued. I'd shape my legs loosely around their torso and legs, forming a three-sided pen of sorts so they couldn't escape. I'd have my handy-dandy bottle of Suave detangler (watermelon scented) and a comb. I'd place the comb on the left side of the crown, drawing a near-perfect straight line toward the back, creating a neat part. 

Several inches to the right I made another nice line with the comb. I'd finish by gathering the hair inbetween to the right, securing it in one of those tiny elastic rubber bands you could buy by the hundreds. And almost always, I'd stick a bow in underneath the band. 

  
It didn't seem to matter if their clothes were hand-me-downs or getting too short. The matching hair bow made them seem more properly put together. 

We've graduated from hair bows. I bought Hallie one of those curling wands for Christmas that comes with a styling glove so you won't burn your hand. She's been fixing her own hair for years now.

 I still aid Rylie in hairstyling, but she doesn't like it. TV distraction is no help. I'm lucky now to get a brush through her hair long enough to gather a quick ponytail. I smooth it down with a headband (still some form of my wanting to keep things in place). I'd say she reacts worse to tangles these days, but I suspect she's seeking some hairdo independence. 

It's not just a hair thing. 

Five years ago when we moved to Nederland we had pictures made by Olan Mills. Our church needed a new directory and individual pictures just so happened to be a bonus. Those pictures have hung on the stairwell  wall since; Hayden's on the seventh step, Hallie's on the fifth and Rylie's on the third.

 For the past year, Hallie complained that she wanted a new picture saying she'd outgrown the one hanging. I ignored her request to a point where she took matters into her own hands. 

Two months ago the picture of ten-year-old Hallie with her fists on her hips was removed by Hallie herself and subsequently replaced with a preferred  watercolor of a horse she found on a shelf. I've left it there. 

  

Rylie followed suit this weekend choosing a picture she felt was a better reflection than the kindergartener on stair three with all her baby teeth. She's been replaced by a delicate flower on a poppy-colored background; something she painted a ways back. 

I'm not ecstatic that perfectly spaced pictures with matching frames are disappearing from the walls.  Neither am I pleased as punch that my girls have moved on from their hair bow days. 

But I'm finding much pleasure in the unique and unfolding beauty that's neither been crafted by my own hands or painted by my pen. 

I've decided to make space for blossoms and spirited horses. 

I'm lessening my attempt to form and preserve "sugar and spice and everything nice". 

 I'm taking up the art of influence, joining them in picture making. I'll spend more time expressing who I am as a child of God and more time enjoying who God is making them into. 

I'm learning to trade in the hair brush for a paintbrush, finding that the art of parenting growing girls is knowing when to hold the brush and when to share it.