When I was a girl, my mother used to comb my hair. All I remember is that it hurt. Oh, and my mom’s friend Glenda used to comb my hair for picture day. By the time I was old enough to sit still without screaming, Momma started taking me to the hairdresser every two weeks. I still go.

So I’m not sure why I thought that I would be a haircombing whiz after Elyse was born. It was fine when she was a newborn, but all I had to do was brush it down then. Now that she’s a year and a half, there are ribbons, barrettes, and a child who won’t sit still.

My efforts are decent, but curious little fingers undo all of my work by the middle of the day. Elyse’s babysitter, Mrs. Mac, usually takes pity on me and fixes it. And I love her for it. In 15 minutes Mrs. Mac braid my baby’s hair into a style that last seven days. If I had three hours, I couldn’t come close to making it look that nice.

I’ll admit that I was jealous at first; I think Supermom was trying to come out. I eventually got over it by applauding my genius in finding a childcare provider who is a hairstylist to boot.

Mrs. Mac is on vacation this month, and she deserves it. Any woman who takes care of five kids five days a week needs some time to herself. Elyse has been going to the backup daycare that my company provides.

So, I tried to step up my game. I didn’t want strangers thinking that I was a bad mother. I bought two new packs of barettes and started taking extra time braiding on haircare night (Saturday.)

I thought that I was doing great, until I picked up Elyse yesterday. She was lying in a teacher’s lap, and the lady was finishing up a set of cornrows that would give Mrs. Mac a run for her money.

“I hope you don’t mind.” She said as she picked up one of those old-school black combs (the one that has the wide teeth at one end and the little teeth on the other)

“Oh no, thank you.” But I did mind. What was wrong with what I had done? And why did Elyse stay still for a perfect stranger? She’s only known this woman for six days; she’s known me for a year and a half.

Then I remembered the book that I bought for Elyse as a desparate attempt to ease the haircombing process. It’s called “I love My Hair.” The tenderheaded girl in the story starts to cry, and her mother tells her about the beauty of black hair:

“Your hair is beautiful, Keyana, and I can style it any way you choose…I could weave it into a puffy little bun…or I could part straight rows along your scalp…”

I had changed the words, because I knew that I was inept.

“Your hair is beautiful, Elyse, and the with the right hairstylist, you can wear it anyway you choose…She can weave it into a puffy little bun…or she can part straight rows along your scalp…

I suppose I shouldn’t be mad because she was paying attention.

When it comes to dating, I feel a little sorry for the men out there. Because in a meet-and-greet environment, it is usually up to the man to make the first move. And for every woman who is amenable to an advance, I imagine that there is at least one who has said no, if not more.

So I respect the man who can get back on the horse time and time again. However, my patience wears thin when tenacity turns to foolishness. After a certain point, you need to get back on the horse and ride away.

Take for instance, The Deacon, a man who has been trying to catch a break from my hairstylist. My mother described him as “having a young face and an old body,” because he is in his late 30s and is shaped like Grimace. I have seen The Deacon try to talk to Lisa at least three times, and I only go to the salon every two or three weeks.

Here’s a recap.

Strike One. The Deacon approached Lisa and tried to get her number. He told her that he is a good man. As a matter of fact, he said, he is a deacon at a prominent church in the area. Too bad that he didn’t know that my father is a deacon, and Lisa asked my mother to check into his story. It didn’t pan out, and he got no digits.

Strike Two. The Deacon appeared one Saturday afternoon, pretending to need a haircut. He brought a doe-eyed preteen with flowing locks with him, claiming that she was his goddaughter. He’s loves the kids, he declared, putting his arm around the girl’s shoulder for emphasis. Lisa was not impressed. I don’t even think that she looked up what she was doing.

Strike Three. The Deacon showed up this past Saturday with a Bom-Pop, one of Lisa’s favorite summertime treats. He took a seat in the waiting area until a barber was ready to see him. He eventually made his way back to the shampoo area, where Lisa was washing my hair.

“So, uhm, do you still have that phone number I gave you?” He tugged on a too-tight nylon grey short set that was highly unflattering on his weeble-wobble frame.

I closed my eyes and tried to be invisible. I felt Lisa’s hands digging into my scalp. “I think so.”

“Are you going to use them?”

“I don’t know. I really can’t think about that right now.”

“What’s there to think about?”

Lisa’s rinsed my hair with too-hot water. “I’m busy with my customers, and I’ve got my real estate work.”

“Where do you live? Please don’t say it’s with a man.”

“No, I live with my sister.”

“Oh, thank goodness. So, are you going to call?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

“You’ve been saying maybe for months!” At this point, I opened my eyes and coughed to hold back the laughter.

“Ma’am, don’t I look like a nice guy to you?”

I coughed again. “I’m sure you’re a nice person.”

“Thank you! See,” he pointed to me. “Your customer thinks I’m nice. Don’t you think she should call me?”

“Maybe she’s not interested.”

He stuttered. “Well, see, uhm, I’ve asked her if she is interested, and…”

I held up my hand, shook my head, and whispered my message again. “She’s not interested.”

The Deacon fumbled for a few moments before asking Lisa for a hug. He blocked her path so that she couldn’t get out of between the two shampoo bowls. I don’t know what the hell she was thinking when she gave it to him. He damn near skipped out of the salon.

I don’t agree with Lisa’s soft-hearted tactics. There is a way to let a guy down easy and let him know to take a hike. It’s a tough skill to master for some, but the “maybe-let-me-think-on-it” approach will only drag out the inevitable.

On the other hand, this man needs to take the hint. He has been coming up empty for months. No phone number. No calls. No dinner invitations. She hardly looks his way when he comes into the shop.

So, Deac, if, by some miracle, you are reading this, please let it go. She is not, and will not, be interested. And even if you decide to keep trying, please do it in the presence of some other customer. I am paying good money for her time, and I would like that time to be undivided.

Don’t be surprised if you see a future entry about how I asked The Deacon for a few dollars to put on my hairstyle. I have a feeling that I haven’t seen the last of him.

When I was pregnant, the slew of unsolicited advice that came my way was relentless. People had cure-alls for pregnancy ailments, gassy babies, fussy sleepers, and picky eaters.

“If you have a happy pregnancy, then you will have a happy baby.” (That advice, by the way, is crap. If you have a happy pregnancy, then count your lucky stars and get ready for the fireworks. A happy baby is not guaranteed.)

“If your baby is full before she goes to bed, then she will sleep all night.” (For me, this too was a load of hooey. Elyse ate to her belly puffed up like a balloon, and she still woke up every two hours.

These are just examples, and I can’t remember half of what I was told. Besides, I had my own ideas. There were some things that I was certain that I would do no matter what.

I would change Elyse on the changing table. I didn’t like the idea of dirty diapers all over the house.

I would not let my child get addicted to a pacifier. I was once with a friend, who, at midnight, was driving around the city looking for an open drugstore because her son couldn’t sleep without his binky. And of course, this was a one-of-a-kind pacifier that was found only at select locations. I did not need that sort of hassle.

I would be Mrs. Clean, wiping mouths and noses faster than they could get dirty. And my kid’s clothes would be sparkling. Hair would be neat, etc.

I would never, never, ever, let her sleep in my bed. My two-year-old cousin spent the night with me a couple of years ago, and she kicked me in the back all night.

Based on this list, some would say that I had never seen a child before. Some would say that I was setting the bar too high. And others would say that I was just plain old nuts. I think I was a little of all three.

What I didn’t account for when I came up with these ideals is the sleep deprivation factor. At 2 a.m. when you are tired and confused, you will let just about anything slide.

I have changed diapers right in the middle of the bed, and woke up the next morning to see it on the floor. And of course, the baby was still in my arms, wearing a milk-stained T-shirt.

Elyse isn’t addicted to a pacifier; she sucks her thumb instead. That,as far as I am concerned, is worse. Her pediatrician says that she will stop on her own, but I’m not convinced. Everyone I know who sucked their thumb did so right up to their driver’s license exam.

Oh, and the hair? Well that’s a story in itself. I braid it once a week in the hopes that it will stay nice for seven days. Elyse’s babysitter generally has pity on me mid-week and recombs it. I still can’t figure out how her braids last so much longer.

I realized how far that I had fallen from grace a couple of days ago when I gave Elyse a little bowl of Cheerios. She spilled half of them on the floor, and I watched her pick them up one by one and pop them in her mouth. And when she offered me one, I ate it.

Most days, though, I think I do pretty well. Elyse is a healthy, happy 18-month-old who carries a purse. I’ve got to be doing something right.

I took a five-day hiatus from my career last week to sit on the couch and be a full-fledged potato. I sent my daugther to daycare; Mike was at work. My job was kind enough not to call. I didn’t check a single e-mail. As a matter of fact, I tried not to touch my computer at all.

There are a couple of things that kept me from becomming a technological illiterate during my vacation. The first was my church’s anniversary ad booklet, which is a blog entry all to itself. It’s funny how church folks are harder to deal with than the average joe.

The second, something that would make you proud I’m sure, was a promise to work on my writing. I kept my laptop close by in case inspiration hit. And I didn’t do too badly; I keyed out a few good ideas.

And the inspiration kept coming. When I reached for my laptop to start on a new entry, I didn’t see an ink pen hiding on the TV tray behind it. When I opened the lid, then pen got caught in the hinges. There was a spark, and the screen went black.

I smelled burnt plastic, and I saw a small cloud of smoke billowing from the bottom of the screen. My laptop went up in smoke, and so did my inspiration.

I spent two days trying to remember what was on that machine. The list was a lot longer than I realized. Photos of Mini Me. My taxes for the last four years. Half-finished blogs. The good news is, the computer folks at work were able to salvage most of my docs. The bad news is, I need a new computer.

I’ve heard parents say that one of the most wonderful things about having a child is that you get to see the world through their eyes. And as the overly proud mother of an 18-month-old girl, I would have to agree. I am amazed every day by the little things that make Mini Me smile.

Take bubbles, for instance. Whenever we go outside to blow bubbles, E laughs so hard that she nearly loses her breath. She is equally entertained by spelling. Yes, spelling her name sends her into a fit of giggles every time.

One thing that everyone forgets to mention, though, is that you get to see yourself through your child’s eyes as well. Kids are mimics. E doesn’t miss a thing. When she first learned to walk, she would go into my mother’s kitchen and try to turn on the oven. It took me two days to realize that she was preheating the oven as she had seen me do at night when we came home.

E can flip the light switches, use the phone, and operate the TV remote. She carries a purse, and can use the car remote to unlock the door.

In the past few weeks, I’ve noticed that her habits are starting to reflect mine. And I can’t say that I always like what I see. Here are a few examples.

The Multitasker: If you ever read my entry “As the Mobile Turns,” you know that I’m a serious multitasker, often to my own detriment. I’ve seen E balance a baby doll on one hip while holding a purse and/or a cell phone as she is digging in her toy box. How many times have I made a mad dash to the car while carrying E, a diaper bag, a purse, and God knows what else? And then I have to balance it all while unlocking the car door. It’s a miracle I haven’t broken my neck or hers.

The Driver. E went to a birthday party at Showbiz, I mean Chuck E. Cheese, last weekend. While piloting the kiddie car with a plastic Chuck E. as a passenger, my little roadster fished around in the back seat, pushed buttons on the console, and took her hands off of the steering wheel to pick up lint off the car’s floor. “Keep your eyes on the road, little one, “ I laughed. “You’re supposed to be driving.” Shoot, who was I to talk? I don’t think that I’ve ever picked up objects off of the car floors, but the other two actions were all me.

The Prima Donna. If I wake up without knowing what I’m going to wear to work, I am setting myself up for a painfully messy morning routine. I don’t think that my brain is capable of making any decisions unless I’ve been up for at least two hours, and my indecision slows me down. I’ll start with a shirt and pants. Then change the pants for a skirt, then change the shirt for a sweater, and then the skirt goes to either the original pants or another skirt. And the jewelry changes too. After I’ve put something together, I’ll stand in the mirror, huff because I hate what I’m wearing, and return to the closet for something else.

E only had to see this once. Now after I get her dressed, she stands in my bedroom in front of the floor-length mirror. I’ve watched as she opens my jewelry drawer, grabs a necklace, puts it on, and then replaces it to try another.

I work on these habits now, I tell myself. Shoot, I don’t like these things about myself, so why should I let my kid do them? Because it’s cute. Everything my baby does is adorable because I am under her spell. I will be kicking myself in about 13 years when I have to drag a picky teen to the mall for new school clothes. But, that is the least of my worries now. If all I have to contend with is a picky shopper, then I’m doing pretty good. After all, I didn’t turn out all that bad.