This scene fills me with dread. Every. Morning.

Brushing my girls' hair is not what I thought it would be. You see, they want it to hurt not even a little bit and they want it to be done right this very instant. Impossible to do both, obviously.

I have searched high and low for a brush they won't hate. I found one, but you can imagine how well it gets the tangles out.

I formulated a hybrid system where I switch between two brushes: the one that feels good (black and brown) and the one that gets it done (pink).

And every time my girls say "I hate the pink brush," I tell them, "it hurts, but it's important because it gets out the tangles."

Of course, there's the truth that I find not only sad, but downright tragic. The pink brush is the only one that does the job. Can't get soft hair with a soft brush.

Can't get a soft soul with a soft life.

This truth, from the bottom of my heart, irritates the hell out of me.

I mean, I'm not one of those Monty Python monks, you know? I believe in joy, and happiness, and good food, and laughter, and all that stuff.

I have to admit, though, that the very best parts of me have come from THE STRUGGLE. That huge pink brush that follows human beings freakin' everywhere.

 Maybe I'm over-thinking it. Maybe the lesson is, cut your hair short. He looks happy, doesn't he?