Mom, don't touch my hair.

Mom, don't touch my hair.

because almost every time, I change my appearance after I come out of the barbershop.

the worst time I remember was in the fourth grade of primary school.

I wore a hat to class all summer, but the hat was ripped off from time to time, and then the students smiled and clapped their hands and said, "look, bald."


at that time, I was infatuated with basketball. In order to get into the school basketball team, I followed the boys and begged them to teach me every day. But the boys in junior high school didn't like to play with girls. They just laughed and pulled my ponytail and said, "you'd better refuel outside."

at this time, she thought I should look like a girl, the kind of standard three-good student sitting in the classroom with a ponytail and listening attentively, but I didn't expect that I shaved off my long hair in the twinkling of an eye with the meal money, mingled with the boys and ran around with them playing basketball.

not going to the parents' meeting seems to be the last way she can express her dissatisfaction.

later, in high school, the situation changed, and my mother began to acquiesce to my dazzling head.

when I was a freshman in high school, as soon as the 6.30 alarm clock rang at home, my mother would rush into my room and wake me up forcefully, then wash my face, brush my teeth and stand on the balcony for 10 minutes.

16.7-year-old love comes out of nowhere. One noon, when he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Let's go, play ball", I suddenly didn't want him to treat me like a brother.

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she didn't go to the teacher, nor did she have a heart-to-heart talk with me, but I took her to the barbershop and told me, go in and sit down.

ever since I was a child, I knew that if my mother was let out, she would try her best to do it.

I sat silently in front of the barber's stool and watched the long-grown hair float away in the mirror. I changed back to my original appearance, and suddenly felt aggrieved.

after I came out of the barbershop, I didn't talk to her for a whole month, nor did I quarrel with her, that is, I didn't see any of her movements, pretended not to hear any language, and kept telling myself in my heart that I thought she was air.

and in this month, the boy I like has his birthday. He told others on his birthday that he had white hair, and his hair didn't even exceed my ears. He never saw it as a girl.

after this sentence, I reconciled with her. My mother allowed me to grow my long hair again, asking me to keep it for myself.

well, my mother knows the people I like better than I do.

the real reconciliation with her was in college.

almost every time I go home, I wear a different hair color than the previous one, and then I am nagged by my mother for a long time.

Hot water beat the wet roots of her hands rubbing my scalp, and she carefully asked me if I was hot. I looked down and could not see her expression, but suddenly felt

although she touched my nearly dry hair, she could not help complaining that I always dye my hair.

on the one hand, I don't want to argue with my mother about my hair, and on the other hand, I want her to worry as little as possible.

it's OK, at least later, when my mother washed my hair again, she sighed in surprise that my hair was much softer.

hair film has become a routine step for me to wash my hair every time. We have also made some other series of shampoo for kangaroos one after another. For different hair quality problems, green is the savior of oil. My friend finished talking about the hair covered into a lantern cover, and the blue hydration series. My mother has been using it, looking at the hair and feeling ten years younger.

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