Oh hair! Beware! or Woes of an enabling mother

So my 2 year old, BigHugs, has issues.  I know, a child of Bythelbs has issues?—shocking!  Everybody has their little quirks—likes and dislikes, routines and rituals, fears and phobias—and BigHugs is no different.  She has a fear of hair, or rather a particular kind of hair.  The kind of hair that is no longer affixed to its natural place of origin.  The stray hair.

Now, I realize that this is not an uncommon aversion.  I can’t say that I know anyone who delights in the discovery of loose hairs in random places, but BigHugs’s fear is rather irrational—it’s like she believes the hair actually intends to do her harm.  She’ll find one and stop dead in her tracks and call out for help.  The first time this happened was really quite alarming.  I was downstairs in the kitchen, I think, when I heard her scream.

BigHugs:  Mom!  Mom!  Help!

Mom, calling back while rushing up the stairs:  What’s wrong?  Are you OK?!

I see her just standing in the middle of our playroom, completely petrified.

Mom, examining her:  What happened?  Are you hurt?

BigHugs, wimpering:  There’s a hair.

Mom:  A what?

BigHugs, more desperate now:  A hair.

Mom:  A hair?  Where?

BigHugs, in a panic:  There’s a hair on my puzzle!

Indeed there is a hair.  I pull it off.

BigHugs, with a huge sigh of relief:  Thanks, Mom.

I thought it was kind of funny and shrugged it off with a laugh.  But it wasn’t a one or two or even three time occurrence—it’s like everyday, several times a day.  She finds one on her clothes and you’d think she had a spider crawling up her arm.  She finds one on the floor and she can barely work up the courage to walk past it, and when she finally does she gives it a wide berth.  She finds one on a toy and she’s near tears.  She finds one on her plate…OK, I’m totally with her on that one.

I spend a good portion of my day rescuing my toddler from perilous hair-related situations.  I do sweep and vacuum, but there are six people living in our home, four of whom are female, all with long hair that has a propensity for shedding.  One hundred percent effective prophylacticism is just not possible.  The other day she brought me a koosh ball.  Fortheluvva…I told her to just forget about the koosh ball.  I could spend the rest of my natural days dehairifying a koosh!

I suppose I’m willing to make the sacrifice to secure the emotional well-being of my baby, but I’m becoming a little concerned about our physical well-being and that of those around us.  Last week we were driving in the car when she worked herself up into a tizzy.  “A hair, Mom,” she cried.  “A hair!”  She sits right behind me, so I reached back and frantically began blindly rubbing up and down her leg and seat.  Luckily I happened to catch it on one of my passes, but I’m not sure how long I could have gone on driving with the one hand while trying to fend off evil hairs with the other, all the while trying to concentrate on the road with my toddler in full panic-attack mode behind me.  What if we’d been in an accident?  How would I explain myself?  Would the officer really be willing to fill out the report with ”Cause of accident:  a hair”?  Is that covered by my insurance?

Yesterday there was a ray of hope—BigHugs spotted a hair on her sleeve and cried out for help.  Tired and spent, I replied, “Just pull if off then.”  And she did.