The Hair | Kim Kelley Photography

So, I’m kind of torn about this post.

Lately, there haven’t been a lot of stories to go along with the pictures I’m posting. Trying to keep up with a Project 365, where I take a picture every single day, is tough. Trying to post those pictures, even tougher. Trying to write some hilarious story to go along with the picture every day? Impossible.

But I shouldn’t worry about posting pictures without stories. This IS a photography blog after all. And the reason I have this blog is to post pictures, which will hopefully bring traffic to my photography business site, and hopefully one day encourage someone to hire me to take pictures of their family!

However, there are also many people out there who tell me that they read my blog because it makes them laugh.  Lately, there has been nothing to laugh about. And I guess I’m not ok with that either.

Taking good pictures and making people laugh sort of rank up there right alongside each other.

Pictures a bit higher I guess, since that brings in money. The laughs do not.

Ok, so I’ll give you a picture. And this picture will make you laugh (at least it makes Amy Z and I laugh EVERY SINGLE TIME we look at it.)

So in a sense, I’m done.  Right?

But I won’t stop there . I’ll give you a story too.

Many of you have already heard this story. But some have not.

And for those of you that I feel depend on me for some comic relief (granted, always at my own expense), I will put this story down in writing so the people I haven’t told in person can also experience it. (I’m talking to you, 4am breastfeeder!  You know who you are!)

Here are the pictures to go with the story. They don’t really relate to the story, but you’ll get it after you start reading.


This was about 3 years ago.

They came down in my underwear.

I let out some kind of noise that I haven’t made before, or since, and then I grabbed my iphone.


Who knew my underwear would fit them like a onsie?

I knew they’d wear my clothes at some point in their lives.

Didn’t know it was going to be this soon.  (or this revealing)


So again, this story has nothing to do with these pictures. But maybe by seeing these pictures, you can understand how a story like this could happen in the first place.

About a year ago I come home from work in the late afternoon and everyone is playing and happy.

A few hours after arriving home, Payton goes to the bathroom and after finishing up her duties comes out to tell me: “There’s a hair in my front butt and I can’t get it off.”

What?? Impossible. No one has heard of a hair in your front butt that you can’t get off.

And who here has heard of a front butt? Only if you know me, my family, and my stories. If you know us, you know front butts. And that’s ALL you need to know.

Anyway, back to the hair.

I squat down in front of her, sure enough, see a hair hanging down, and I pull on it.

It’s like Payton is a toy on a string.

When I pull on the hair, her knees bend to come down with the hair, and she yells.


Pull again.

Payton dips and yells again.

There is a hair stuck in her front butt that won’t come off.

So seriously, I want to get this thing off. I try to lay her down right there on the carpet and get it. But she’s not having it. Her knees clamp together, her hands grasp her panties and try to pull them back up, she holds herself in a modified sit up/abdominal crunch and she finds the strength of a 1000 men to prevent me from doing my job.

So I carry her upstairs, and lay her on my bed.

I have to use all my limbs to get her to stay in position. My knees are pushing out on her knees to keep her legs open, and one of my arms is trying to hold both of hers, and my head butts against her head to keep her down. And then I have one hand left to untangle a seemingly tangled up hair. But it won’t come off. And there is a tiny little pooch of skin that is trapped in that hair, and is turning white.

I try vaseline to slide it off. I try to unwind it both ways. I call my doctor friends.

And all this time Payton is SCREAMING.  Scary screaming that made me think about what the neighbors are thinking about. And every 3 minutes Harper comes running into the room, gives me a look of terror as if she’s caught me dismembering her sister, and runs out of the room crying… but stops once she’s made it back to the kitchen so she can update Tom on what is going on upstairs.

And Tom? Never made an appearance. He apparently would rather stay away from hairs stuck on front butts. I don’t blame him, but come on.

So we’re off to the ER.

I tell the triage nurse that a hair is wrapped around a little piece of skin on her labia.  She looks shocked.

Of course right then, Payton needs to poop. So I take her, but OH NO! You can’t wipe me! You can’t come NEAR me and my hair that hurts so bad! So don’t wipe me!

So I don’t really wipe her.

We get called to a room soon after that.

I tell the story.

They tell me to pull her panties down.

I try, and they see me valiantly struggling with her. She does NOT want her panties down. So they bring a blanket, and we papoose her. I stay up at her head, and her arms are trapped at her sides, wrapped tightly in the blanket.

The nurses (3 of them to help us contain her) start laughing. And Payton seems calmer.  Apparently, when you are papoosed in a blanket with your arms at your sides, it’s the perfect position to grab on tight to your underwear and hold them onto your body. No need to struggle and scream when you’ve got your undies right where you want them.

So  a quick unwrapping of the child, removal of the undies, or at least out of the reach of tiny hands, and then a re-wrap.

I take a look at Payton lying there, and I worry about who is going to make the call to Child Protective Services. I bet one of those nurses already ran to do it.

She’s 4 years old, with a hair stuck in her labia. She has dozens of bruises on her legs. One is especially yellow and green and big and ugly. And she has poop stains in her underwear because she wouldn’t let me wipe her.

She looks neglected. And beaten. And sexually assaulted.

Tom was brilliant to stay home. I may be going to jail.

Finally, the doctor comes in, and I lean over Payton while she goes to work. I stroke her hair, whisper that she’ll get a sticker, or maybe an ice cream even. I tell her it’s almost over, she’s being so brave, and I’m wondering why there’s no action down there! Where’s the shot of lidocaine? Where’s the set of tweezers and scalpel that will lift and separate and cut and hurt like hell?

I look down when I get a chance. One of the nurses is wiping her down with a washcloth.

What’s going on?

I ask: “What’s going on?”

They say they are just wiping off the Nair, making sure the whole hair has dissolved.

Shut the front door.


The same Nair they sell at the Von’s across the street from my HOUSE?!?!?

Oh no. Oh no, no, no,no,no.  That was it??? A little bit of Nair????

I’m just staring at where the little pooch of skin is looking less white and pinking back up. Trying to wrap my head around the beauty of Nair. And how this particular bottle of Nair cost me $260.

Payton snaps me back into the moment. She’s yelling again, and I try to resume my job of soothing her. Finally she interrupts me and (finally) states clearly: “I’m sweating hot!”

So I unwrap her, put her soiled panties back on, let her pick a few stickers, and head back home in a daze.


Why didn’t I think of that?


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  • Jennifer MacDougallTough to laugh and type at the same time! And I might be speechless. thanks, Kim! ReplyCancel

  • Amy ZucharoSoo glad this made the blog!! By far, my favorite pic AND story of your girls!!!!ReplyCancel

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