Tangled Hair and Me

As an Indonesian, my hair has always been simple. It is straight, fine, and easy to manage. I rarely keep it very long; once it grows past a certain point, it starts falling like rain in the monsoon back home. So I had to cut it shorter. It is always like that. It is predictable. It is quiet.

My daughters, Allahumma barik, are the complete opposite.

Their hair is a wild, beautiful crown—curly, dry, coarse, and long. In the Arab world, this is the “ideal.” People love to see it flowing. But the reality of living with that beauty is a weight I don’t always have the energy to carry.

The Two-Hour Battle

The problem is simple: they don’t like to brush it. And I, exhausted by the demands of motherhood, don’t always have the strength to stand over them every morning and night to ensure every strand is free from tangles.

Today, that reality caught up with us.

For weeks, their own brushing wasn’t enough. Beneath the surface, the tangles had turned into mats—stubborn knots. I stood there today with the Skala Mais Cachos (the Brazilian “holy grail”) and the Wet detangling brush and comb, trying to be the patient mother they deserve.

But as the clock ticked, my patience broke. I didn’t have the hours it would take to save every strand. I spent two hours today in a battle that left all of us broken. Two hours of tears. Two hours of me staring at matted knots that refused to budge. I used half a tub of Skala Mais Cachos. I used the brush and comb. I used every ounce of my resolve.

But eventually, the brush wasn’t enough. I had to reach for the scissors.

The Sound of the Blades

There is a specific kind of heartache in the sound of scissors cutting through a child’s hair—especially when it’s not for a stylish trim, but out of desperate necessity.

As the curls fell to the floor, leaving their hair much shorter than intended, the guilt set in. I looked at their tear-stained faces and wondered: Did I just traumatize them? Why didn’t I just make the time?

But as I sat in the aftermath, I realized something. I am only one person.

Beauty vs. Peace

My husband prefers their hair down—no ponytails, no braids. He loves the aesthetic of their long curls. But I am the one who holds the brush. I must admit, they look stunning like that, but I am the one who hears the two hours of crying. I am the one whose patience is pushed to the snapping point.

I have to ask: If the expectation is for the hair to be long, should the labor of maintaining it be shared?

I don’t want to fight with my children for two hours over a hairstyle. I don’t want my daughters to associate “beauty” with pain and their mother’s frustration.

I’m choosing a different path. I’m leaning toward the shoulder-length bob. Something manageable. Something that allows us to spend those two hours laughing together instead of crying over a knot.

The Lesson in the Mess

Motherhood isn’t always the perfectly braided image we see on Instagram. Sometimes, it’s messy, emotional, and a little regretful.

I am sorry for the tears today. But I am not sorry for choosing our peace. Hair grows back, but the atmosphere of our home is something I have to protect right now.

Maybe the “Barakah” isn’t in the length of the hair, but in the honesty of knowing when a burden is too heavy to carry alone.

What do you think? Have you ever had to choose “manageable” over “beautiful” for the sake of your sanity?