Now that Evie's hair is finally getting long enough to braid, I decided to watch a tutorial for French braiding on Youtube. It was four minutes long and nearly made my brains leak out my ears. I honestly tried to follow the woman's blurred fingers as she twisted and pulled...but seriously, shooting a bird straight out of the sky using a straw and a small wad of saliva-coated paper looked easier than what this lady was doing.
Perhaps it is my disdain for the French people as a whole that has caused me to subconsciously block the ability to master this ancient form of braiding. Yes, you heard right; I can't stand that country. I'm a fairly open-minded person but I will admit to this one bigotry. Don't feel sorry for the Frenchies, though...anyone who can say that the worst slur to be hurled at them is the word "frog" can't possibly have it too bad.
Apparently there's a close cousin called the Dutch braid that is simply an "inverted French braid." I have no real problem with the Dutch, (though my Grandpa never seemed too fond of them) but anyone who tries to braid hair from the bottom up can't be given very much respect, in my book.
Of course, an inverted braid isn't actually what it sounds like it should be, but no one ever said discrimination had to make sense.
So for my own piece of mind (and a poorly applied sense of patriotism), I decided to start calling it a Freedom braid. And wouldn't you know it? With that mental block hurdled, I was finally successful!
Here is my first completed attempt at a Freedom braid:
As you can see, I wasn't sure when to put hair into what finger, so I winged it...adding clumps of hair whenever a digit started feeling lonely. Still, considering it was a moving target, I don't think I did too bad. Granted, it looks mostly like a traditional braid, with the hair on the front half of her head shoved haphazardly inside, but it's certainly a start.
And farther than my own mother ever got with me, incidentally. I can still remember the glint of hope she'd get in her eyes whenever she got the urge to try a French braid in my hair.
"This time I really think I can do it!"
I loved her too much to tell her the truth. That the ninety-third time will be no more successful than the first. She'd furrow her brow in utter concentration as her fingers scraped across my scalp, tightly gathering every last strand of hair and cinching into the tightest braid known to man. Even the French wouldn't be that cruel.
About half way through, it would start looking too sloppy so she'd quit. At the time, I thought it was an eye-hand coordination thing, but I realize now that she was simply being a perfectionist. I was either going to look like a Nazi Fraulein (who I assume wore severely tight braids since they were such hateful people) or I was going to wear my hair down.
So getting even this far with Evie's hair is a huge accomplishment, considering my genetics. Because of this, I dedicate my daughter's first Freedom braid to my loving mother.
I couldn't have done it with you, Mom! ;-)
____________
