Page 41 of Sunshine
We’ve been talking about her new school all week and practicing strategies she can use if she feels overwhelmed or scared, like five-finger breathing, listing her favorite animals in alphabetical order, visualizing a peaceful place, or squeezing the little stress ball she’s going to hide in her pocket.
I’m proud of her. Transferring schools in the middle of the school year is tough. Transferring because she’s having trouble fitting in raises the stakes. But if there’s one thing I know about Izzy, it’s that she’s resilient and funny with a flair for drama, and in the right environment, she’ll make a heap of great friends. Everyone at this new school is going to love her. And if they don’t, they’ll have to answer to me.
“I have to wear auniform,” Izzy says, scrunching her nose in disgust.
I drag a comb through her hair one last time before reaching for my tote bag, and Izzy’s eyes light up immediately. “I read your uniform policy yesterday, and while it’s true you have to wear the plaid skirt and the blue shirt and that funny little necktie, there’s no rule against hair accessories. So, guess what?”
Izzy bounces with excitement. “What?”
I pull out a clear plastic case filled with hair ties and scrunchies and decorative clips in navy and indigo and cobalt and azure and every kind of blue I could find. Izzy gasps when I offer it to her and accepts it almost reverently.
“I bought you these,and…”
I hunt around in the bag and pull out a bottle of powder-blue nail polish. “We can’t paint your fingernails, but we can paint your toes. You’ll be wearing shoes and socks, so none of your teachers will know.”
She tips her head to one side and furrows her brow. “So, what’s the point?”
“You’ll know,” I explain. “And it’ll make you feel good. It’s a trick all women should know. What you’ve got on underneath your…uh…socks is a secret weapon for self-esteem.”
“Under my socks?” she asks. “Are you sure?”
I’m sure you’re not old enough for a discussion about lingerie.
“Positive. So why don’t you have a look through the case for something to wear in your hair tomorrow, and I’ll give you a DIY pedicure later this afternoon?”
“Okay.” Izzy rips at the zipper and paws through the hair accessories before pulling out a sparkly blue scrunchie. “This one,” she says as she hands it over.
“Excellent choice, and may I also suggest…” I dig around in the little bag until I find what I’m looking for, then hold up a set of silver hair clips with bluebirds attached to the sides. “These? To keep those pesky flyaways under control.”
Izzy skates a little finger over the birds. “Wow. They’re so pretty.”
“Which makes them perfect for you.” I boop her nose. “Now, before we do a trial run for tomorrow’s hairstyle, what do you say to a little trim?”
I catch a lock of hair between two fingers, skimming to the ends and holding them up with a scandalized look. “Split,” I whisper.
Izzy sets her palms to her cheeks and gasps. “No!”
I roll my lips to stop a smile, closing my eyes with a sympathetic nod. “Afraid so.”
“I can’t start a new school withsplit ends.”
“And I wouldn’t dream of sending you.” I pick up the scissors and give them a metallic little snap as I examine the length of Izzy’s hair. Even with a generous wave, it falls to the small of her back. “What do you say to a quarter of an inch?” I hold up my thumb and finger to demonstrate the length I plan to remove. “You won’t even notice, but it’ll give your curls a fresh bounce.”
“Sounds good.”
“Fantastic.” I set gentle fingers on her head and tilt her chin to her chest. “Okay, Izzy. Stay very still.”
I take my time trimming her ends, not wanting to mess it up and take more than absolutely necessary. When I’m done, I rub in a little product to smooth away frizz, then collect her thick tresses in a high ponytail that’ll swing when she walks. The whole time, Izzy watches in the mirror, her face so still I can’t tell if she likes it or not. If I were a weaker woman, I’d crack under the pressure of that unforgiving stare.
“And now for the clips,” I say. “Would you like one on each side or two on the left, just to be different?”
“One on each—” Izzy stops herself, pursing her lips like she’s thinking, then starts again. “Two on theright, just to beextradifferent.”
I wink at her in the mirror and slide the accessories into her hair. “Atta girl.”
After she bounds down from her stool, I leave her twirling in her orange tutu, talking and dancing with her stuffed toys, while I sweep up the bits of hair on the hardwood floors. I don’t even realize we’re no longer alone until Izzy exclaims, “Daddy!”
She runs over to where he stands in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, his arms open as Izzy rushes into his whirling hug. I can’t believe Dylan doubts himself as a dad. He’s so good with Izzy. Patient and funny, and the way he loves on her is enough to break my heart in the best way. Maybe neither of them knows it now, but one day, Izzy is going to grow up and sit beside her father and hold his hand while she thanks him for all the days and years of love he gave her.
