Why Your Kid Keeps Asking “What Should I Do With My Hair?” (And Small, Practical Things You Can Try)
It’s 7:12 a.m., the oatmeal on the counter is starting to crust over, my 7-year-old son is sticking his spoon in the dog’s water bowl, and my 10-year-old Lila is pressed up against the bathroom mirror, twisting a strand of shoulder-length curly hair around her finger. “Mom,” she says, not turning around, “what should I do with my hair?”
I sigh, because we’ve been here before. Last Monday I pulled it into a tight French braid, and she texted me from the nurse’s office at 10 a.m. saying her scalp hurt too bad to do math. Last Tuesday I told her to just leave it down, and she complained all dinner that it got in her face when she played four square at recess, and that her best friend Mia said it looked frizzy. The night before, we sat on her bed after brushing teeth and picked out three options together, laid the scrunchies and clips out on the counter. None of that matters today, apparently.
I used to react the way most tired morning parents do: I’d rush her, say “just pick one, we’re already late,” or if I was extra annoyed, I’d yank it back into a ponytail myself and herd her out the door. That one time I did that, she walked into school with her head down, and when I picked her up that afternoon, she told me the ponytail was lopsided and three kids asked her what happened to her hair. She didn’t cry, just stared at her scuffed sneakers while she talked, and that’s when I realized this wasn’t just about being stubborn or wasting time.
I mentioned it to Lila’s 4th grade teacher at parent-teacher conferences a few weeks later, and she nodded like she hears this every day. She said once kids hit 9 or 10, they’re starting to figure out what parts of their life they get to call their own. Most big stuff—what time they go to bed, what school they go to, what we have for dinner—all that is still up to us. Their hair? That’s something small, tangible, that they get to decide. And when you’re just starting to care what other kids think, that decision feels huge. It makes total sense that they’d keep second-guessing it.
That clicked for me. I started testing small things, no big overhauls, just tiny adjustments that fit into our chaotic mornings.
The first thing I tried was limiting choices to two, the night before, instead of leaving it open-ended. Open-ended questions like “what do you want to do with your hair” turn into endless spinning for kids who are new to making this call. Now, after we pick out her clothes the night before, we pick two hairstyle options that work for whatever the day is—if it’s a field trip, one option is loose with a clip for when she’s hiking, the other is two loose braids that don’t pull. I write the options on a neon pink sticky note (the kind my son got for his birthday) and stick it right on the bathroom mirror, next to her retainer case. If she asks the question in the morning, I just nod at the note. Most days, she picks one and it’s done in two minutes.
The second thing I started doing is biting my tongue unless she asks for help. I used to automatically reach to fix a lopsided ponytail or smooth down a frizzy section, but that sends the message that I don’t trust her to do it right. Now, if she ties it up half-way and it’s messy, I just say “that scrunchie matches your shirt, that’s cool” and turn back to my coffee. Last week, she came home complaining that her messy bun fell out by recess, and instead of saying “I told you I could fix it,” I just said “That sounds annoying. What do you want to try tomorrow?” She decided on braids, and that was that. She learned more from that bad bun than I could have taught her by fixing it for her.
The third thing is letting her mess around with low-stakes changes. A month ago she said she wanted to cut bangs, and my first instinct was to say no, you’ll regret it. Instead, I got out the kitchen scissors, put a towel around her shoulders on the bathroom counter, and said “Okay, you can cut them. If they turn out too short or crooked, we can go get them trimmed at the salon next week, it’s $15 and it’s no big deal. Hair grows back.” She cut them a little crooked, wore them for two weeks, then decided she wanted to clip them back out of her face until they grow out. That’s it. We got a $5 pack of temporary hair color streaks from the drugstore, and she wears them on weekends to the park or to her friend’s house, no pressure to wear them to school if she’s nervous. It’s just hair, and it’s a cheap, low-risk way for her to figure out what she likes.
It doesn’t work every time. Last Tuesday, she changed her mind twice after picking, we still showed up to school five minutes late, and I snapped at her when she stopped to re-do her braid by the front door. I still forget to do the sticky note some nights, and we’re back to square one. But most days, it’s better. I stopped seeing the question as an annoyance, and started seeing it for what it is: a small, daily practice for her growing up.
This morning, she pressed up against the mirror, twisted her hair, and asked the question again. I nodded at the sticky note with two options. She paused for a second, then rummaged through the scrunchie jar and pulled out a neon blue one I’d never seen before, tied her hair into a high, messy ponytail, and said “Actually, I’m doing this.” I grabbed my keys, we walked out to the car, and we got to school two minutes late. The ponytail was lopsided. It was fine.
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