When Leta was 6 years old and entering Kindergarten, I wanted to find a way to return to work, make some money, and still have the flexibility to be home in the afternoon for my four kids. What I found out was that everyone wants this kind of job, and these jobs don’t really exist unless you are your own boss or can work from home. So, I decided to do just that; start my own business. I did not let the fact that I had never gone to business school, had no background in finances, or ever run a business before deter me from my pursuit.

My “A Ha!” moment came one day while taking Leta to get her haircut. In general, Leta hated these outings. I think she thought of it as an extension of the hospital, where sharp and unpleasant things often poked and prodded her. So I would often cut her hair myself at home. But after a few months of bad haircuts, we would end up back at a salon for a professional do-over. This particular day, we walked into a quiet salon in Chestnut Hill that mostly catered to elderly women. Leta began screaming the minute we arrived. She refused to sit down in the chair and kept trying to run for the door. So the only way to get her to sit, was for me to physically hold her down in my lap, wrapping my legs around her legs, my arms around her arms. A human straight jacket. Even with all this drama, the stylist remained a good sport and was willing to try to cut Leta’s hair. I prayed that she was quick and nimble with her scissors. But Leta was fighting my grip, jerking from side to side, and spitting in the stylist’s face so much that I thought the stylist was going to burst into tears too.

After ten minutes of blood, sweat and tears, the stylist finally called it quits. We were all exhausted and only a few locks of hair lay scattered on the floor at our feet. The other patrons in the salon also seemed exhausted after watching and listening to our theater. I caught their looks of horror out of the corner of my eye. I could hear in my mind the questions I knew they wanted to ask. “What is wrong with that little girl?,” “Why can’t that mom control her?,” “Why is that mom holding her in such a tight grip?,” “Why did they have to come here?” The silent judgement was deafening and far worse than Leta’s tantrums. And to avoid this kind of repeat embarrassment, I adopted the strategy of salon-hopping with Leta; never returning to the same place twice. Kind of like a hit-and-run; we would make a scene and disappear.

And this particular day, after all this effort and still failing at the task of getting her hair trimmed, I had my epiphany. I should start my own kid’s hair salon! Leta would never have to go anywhere else to get her hair cut again. I would be able to hand pick my own stylists that could cater to special needs and autistic children. And I would have the flexibility to work and still be there for my kids. I had seen how successful a kids hair cuttery had been in Indianapolis, where we lived five years prior. That salon, called “Cookie Cutters” let kids sit on motorcycles or old fashioned police cars and watch videos on a television monitor. The kids, so blissed out by the “plug in drug,” would never realize the buzz saw was headed towards their scalps. No tears, no pain, and a balloon at the end. Nothing like this existed in Philadelphia, and it was the perfect combination for me of work and kids. A big departure from my career as a television producer for CBS News in New York City, but it seemed like it might have a potential market, and I jumped head first…

( more in my book)

I took Leta to get her hair cut the other day and was reminded of this time in my life by a strange meeting from my past. I did end up opening and running a kids hair cuttery in Chestnut Hill for 7 years, but I had closed the doors in 2009. And now I was back to cutting Leta’s hair at home. Her hair, so thick and curly, was starting to look like a mullet and really needed a professional shaping. Like when she was little, we dropped by a salon close to home; one we had definitely visited years ago. Jennifer, the stylist, was still there and remembered Leta instantly. For good and bad reasons I have always known that Leta is unforgettable to other people. But even without an appointment, Jennifer eagerly welcomed us in and put all her other appointments on hold to tend to Leta. Ten years older, Leta was able to pull herself up into a chair as Jennifer gently wrapped a cape over her shirt and lovingly introduced the hairbrush and scissors. Leta’s behavior was not perfect, but she did not act the way she used to when she was little. There was no hitting or spitting or crazy flailing in my arms. Jennifer was able to systematically trim Leta’s hair while we reminisced about the last time we had been at her salon. She seemed to have an uncanny memory for my family, even remembering all my kids names. We commiserated that where once the future seemed full of promise, we were both now divorced and leading drastically different lives. But we agreed that we had survived, and the worst was behind us. Jennifer was just like my care specialists at my salon, “Cookie Cutters.” She was so loving and patient with my special needs little girl.

As Leta got up from her chair with her new coif, she tugged at her cape to pull it off, trying to wipe away the bits of hair that had fallen down her shirt. I could tell she was itchy and wanted to take a shower. She asked for some water, which Jennifer gave her. And as I was leaning down to Leta’s feet to put her crocks back on, Leta poured that cup of water right on my head. And she laughed. I guess Leta determined that I needed a shower more than she did. Or in her mind, am I just an extension of herself? Did she pour the water on my head because it was funny or because she was itchy? Maybe both.

We said our good-byes. But this time, I knew we would definitely return. No more haircut hit-and-runs for Leta. She was growing up.