My stomach does a flip when I see that white and blue envelope in our kids’ cubby: Picture day is right around the corner!

Kindergarten picture day was today.

At this point in the year, we’re between seasons, and so there are a few long-sleeved, fall shirts stacked in with the almost-too-small tee shirts that the kids have started to outgrow from the summer.

The photographer prefers your child wear a solid color without a pattern as this will photograph better.

There are two solid colors from which to choose: the white (with stains) polo that we can hardly pull over the toddler’s head, or the blue, button-down oxford we’re hoping stays somewhat nice so that he has something to go to temple in for the rest of the year (if this goes to school on picture day, it will come home with blobs of food, paint, or dirt—great, but not for this shirt).

Or, as in my daughter’s drawer, there’s slim pickings for shirts without pattern (or text). We’re fans of polka dots, stripes, and an occasional logo adornment. The shirts without pattern are too hot and the plain, summery shirts are tank tops, unsuitable for school.

But what really worries me is the hair.

My boys? Their hair can’t be tamed. The toddler boasts a shock of blond hair with cowlicks at every angle; the middle, our 4-year-old, has that sort of thick, gorgeous hair that I can’t help touching, that bedhead that looks somehow coiffed, even when he’s sweaty and desperately needing a bath.

For our girl, the Kindergartner, this will be her first official school picture. Naturally I hope to her contagious smile and sweet disposition are reflected in the wallet-sized photos that I will undoubtedly tape to the fridge and place near my desk at work, the one that we’ll look at 11 years from now when she’s on the verge of leaving high school, the one that we’ll point to and say, “Remember when…?” What she wears for her picture she decided upon last night, and then, I’m sure, changed her mind when she woke up today, and changed back again after I’ve left.

I’m a teacher. I leave the house before 7:00 a.m. each workday morning, and rare are the days when our daughter wakes up early enough that I can tame her dirty blonde, long locks. There is much brushing, screaming, screeching, fighting through knots, and lot and lots of detangler. For a time, she wouldn’t let me so much as craft a simple ponytail. Hair maintenance had to be quick and as painless as possible, which meant a day with hair in the face, hair in knots and tangles by noon. Now, we get through the hair brushing with less resistance, but let’s be real—there’s still plenty of damning screams (OWWW!) and useless whimpering. (My husband does a passable job because he doesn’t deal with the knots under near her neck.)

Today, I woke up early and plugged in a curling iron. I whispered, then, a few minutes later (between getting the toddler and the middle dressed) asked, then, later (after doling out the cheese sticks to the boys, their preferred breakfast) demanded that our girl wake up so that I could “do” her hair before I left.

What I’m hoping to avoid here is a picture of a sweet girl with a head of hair that looks neglected.

What I’m hoping to avoid here is a picture of a child that looks neglected.

A judgment on me as a working mom who hardly has time to do her daughter’s hair, poor baby.

Because on any given day, our girl will come home from school or camp, or maybe she hasn't gone much of anywhere at all, looking exactly like she SHOULD look: unkempt, disheveled, a smidgen of lunch condiment on her shirt (and face, and maybe shoes), some paint, some dirt. I love when she comes home looking like she HAD FUN. But that's not what we're used to seeing in school pictures. We dress up. We groom. (We stress a little too much.)

She got out of bed, lazily, still dreamy and warm with sleepiness, shuffled to the bathroom. I was in a hurry, so I didn’t remind her immediately to go potty (though normally I would). The hair took precedence. She was happy that mommy was “doing” her hair, curling sections of it like I do my own, sometimes. She was smiley. I asked her what sort of style she wanted for picture day.

I thought I’d just wear it down. Or maybe a headband. And that’s what I want, so please no ponytails.

Every child’s school picture contains an imprint of parenthood—at least, that’s what we (their parents) look for in their picture. Are they well-fed? Nicely clothed? Well cared for? Happy? “Bad” school pictures make us feel badly because a pout or a dirty face translates to a problem (for some people). Or we don’t have good wallet photos to send out to family, which is just a kick in the pants, and then we have 20 wallet photos that don’t really look like our kid, or don’t project what we want to project to other people about our kids. Or ourselves.

Can we agree not to let school pictures define our perceptions of each other as parents?

One day, our girl may spend lots of time on her own hair. Hopefully, she won’t—hopefully, she’ll embrace her natural beauty instead of trying to curl what’s straight, darken what’s blonde, or highlight what’s dark. But while she’s still little, and while I still can, I hope that I can help her to understand that looking presentable means taking care of your one and only body, and that grooming doesn’t have to be a sport, but is a means of self-love and self-respect.

And one day, I’m going to get it together and figure out how to get everyone’s hair cut at the right time in summer, and to start eyeing back-to-school sales for prospective, non-stripey, non-logo-y shirts.

Maybe one day, I’ll just let go and embrace the cowlicks. 

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About the Author

Monica Gebell

Monica Gebell is a full-time English teacher, a Co-Director of the Rochester Listen To Your Mother show, and a contributing writer for Kveller. She and her husband are raising their three, young, wild-haired children in Rochester, NY. You can find her memoirs, rants, and musings at or on .