A Thousand Butterfly Kisses
Written by Ellie Kirk and Illustration by Jackie Urbanovic
When I was a baby, I had a swirly puff of red hair on the top of my head. My dad, Andrew, said I looked like a little rose, and that’s how I got my name.
I grew up, and my hair grew out long and straight and thick. My papa, Phil, said it looked like a waterfall at sunset. He would brush my hair 100 strokes every night before I went to bed. Then Dad would give me butterfly kisses with his eyelashes. Even though I was eleven and maybe too old for butterfly kisses, it was my favorite part of the day.
I never wanted to cut my hair.
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One day, on the way to Papa’s salon, I saw a girl walking down Walnut Street towards Dad and me. She was about my age, and she wore a Philly’s baseball hat pulled down over her ears. When we passed each other, a wind blew the hat onto the sidewalk in front of me.
I stopped and stared. The girl was bald. She had a few wispy patches of hair like white cotton-candy fluff, but that was all. She stared at my waterfall-sunset hair. Her eyes were big and dark and sad, like a basset puppy’s.
I reached down, picked up her hat, and held it out. She grabbed the hat and jammed it back down onto her head. Then she ran to a brick building and through a set of revolving doors.
It felt like all the air had disappeared. I couldn’t move. “Why did she look like that?” I asked Dad.
He said, “Well, that building is a new children’s clinic. Some diseases need treatments that make you lose your hair.”
Goose bumps ran up and down my arms. “That’s terrible.”
Dad hugged me. “You know, Rose, some people donate their hair to charity. It’s made into wigs for sick children.”
He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. I knew what he getting at, but I didn’t care.
“I’m never cutting my hair,” I said. “EVER.”
But all week, I kept thinking about that bald girl.
I asked Dad how much hair a person had to cut off to make a wig. I thought I could give an inch or two, for a little buzz-cut.
“At least ten inches,” he said. “The longer, the better. It takes a lot of hair to make a nice wig.”
“Ten inches!” I said. “That’s all the hair I have. Forget it.”
A few days later, something weird happened. My hair started to feel really heavy. It pulled my head down, like each strand had a little anchor on it.
I asked Papa how fast hair grows, and he told me about half and inch a month. It would take my hair two years to grow back.
Two years.
“I’m not giving anybody all of my hair,” I said to myself. “No way.”
That night, I had the worst dream. My hair was so heavy that my head sank all the way down into the pillow. Even so, I could see a hundred little bald girls sitting in my room. On my sweater chest, on my vanity, on my bookshelf…everywhere. They weren’t crying, or yelling, or whining. They were just looking at me, like they were waiting for something.
I woke up and they weren’t there, but I could still feel them looking at me.
I tiptoed into Dad’s office. As usual, he was still awake, working on his computer.
“Dad?”
“Hmmmmm?” He didn’t even look over his shoulder.
I took a deep breath and said, “Cut my hair. Right now.”
That got his attention. He sat up straight and turned around on his swivel chair. “You know I can’t,” he said. “I’d make a mess of it, and Papa would kill me. Wait until after school. If you still want to do this, come over to his shop, and we’ll see. Now, go to bed.” He smiled and touched my cheek with his pinkie finger, then went back to work.
I stomped out of the room. How was I supposed to put up with all that stupid hair, even for just one more day?
I couldn’t wait for the last period bell to ring, but when it did, my stomach felt like it was filled with rocks. I took baby steps all the way to Papa’s salon, just so I could keep my hair a little longer.
I finally got to the shop. Dad opened the door for me. I grabbed his hand and held on tight.
Papa stood behind his chair. I sat down, and he braided my hair. He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.
Then it was time.
Papa turned me around, so I couldn’t see my reflection in the mirror. He had a pair of gold-painted shears.
All the stylists started to clap…clap…clap, and yell “Rose! Rose! Rose!” I felt like a rock star.
Finally, underneath all the clapping and yelling, I heard a tiny snip, snip, snip. And all of a sudden, I felt…cool. And light. And happy.
Everybody started to cheer. Then Papa turned the chair to face the mirror. I swung around, and my short hair tickled my chin and my neck and my cheeks, like a thousand butterfly kisses.
I looked at myself, and I saw Papa looking at me. He was holding my braid, and he had a funny expression on his face, like he didn’t recognize me.
“Are you sad, Papa?” I whispered.
Papa smiled. “Sad? Of course not,” he said. “I’m just so proud of you. And I never realized what a pretty face you have.” He hugged me, and then Dad hugged me, and all the stylists came over and it turned into a big group hug. Then they picked me up and paraded me around the shop. It was the best night of my life.
I can’t believe it’ll be two years before I can do it again.
THE END
Click here to learn more about Locks of Love, a non-profit organization that provides hairpieces to financially disadvantaged children, 18 years and younger, suffering from long-term or medical hair loss.
