An old enemy image dissolves
If you have children, you have to declutter a lot . I often go down to the basement with the best of intentions and two hours later find myself tearfully parting with three Pixi books and a stuffed gnome from a Migros collection campaign.
But slowly, deeper layers of our clutter are coming to light. And recently, behind a box of water toys, the old hairdressing head of one of our daughters peered out.
He was a gift, but not from me. Because I knew how much he was wanted, I had tolerated him, though never welcomed him. But now I almost let out a «hello». Dishevelled, his eyes wide open, he seemed almost as surprised as I was to see each other again. Then a water pistol clattered to the floor. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have heard him say, «Well, you, still angry?"
The hairdressing head – a Cruella de Vil with an angelic face who lures girls' souls instead of puppies.
A plasticised dictation
We had our issues, the two of us, when he was still new and blonde in the nursery – my red rag with pink cheeks. There was also Lillifee, of course, and later Heidi Klum. But he seemed to me to be the epitome of pink glitter. A plasticised role model. A Cruella de Vil with an angelic face, luring girls' souls instead of puppies.
Well, anyway, questions ran through my mind whenever I saw his: They're supposed to grow up with this...? This is supposed to be their world...? And when scrawled «make-up sets» appeared on wish lists and clumsy phrases like «No photo for you» blared from the television, it all seemed like a logical consequence.
Fortunately, there were other things too. Books about impressive women, for example. We even had two copies of Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls. Not exchanging the second copy I was given was my own little act of rebellion. Even though my daughters didn't like the book very much. «Too contrived!» was their verdict, which was also a warning to me.
The pink mist is clearing
But at some point, the pink fog cleared. Today, black dominates one daughter's wardrobe, while mildly eccentric chaos dominates the other's. Their T-shirts feature skulls and Nirvana, and their school presentations sometimes touch on feminism. They are also adept at using hair straighteners and make-up. But their sense of complexity has grown.
Mine too, I think, as we now stand facing each other in the basement, my head and I. Was that my red rag? He looks tired, somehow badly aged. When he joined us, Obama was still president. «Do you even know what's happened since you've been down here?» But he's probably thinking more about beauty filters than cultural backlash. I, on the other hand, am reminded of the old questions. Unlike him, they don't seem to have aged at all, quite the contrary. But I don't say anything. I don't want him to blame himself, so close to the end.
Decluttering is one of those things. But once it's done, you feel lighter.
«You were a great enemy,» I explain to him instead, and am a little surprised that he is still silent. I never used to be so nice... Now is not the time to get sentimental, not with him! So I grab the thing by the scruff of its neck, throw it roughly next to the gnomes and pixies, and add the two issues of Rebel Girls.
Yes, decluttering is one of those things. But once it's done, you feel lighter. The water pistols now have more space and the head is gone. Without answering a single question. But he was always good at asking them.
