"HANALEI D'ANGELO, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"
My scream echoed through the White House, loud enough to wake the ancestors. I stared at my daughter, my vision blurring with actual tears of frustration.
Hanalei stood in the center of her bedroom, surrounded by golden-blonde clumps of what used to be the most beautiful, waist-length hair I had ever seen. She was six years old, and she was currently holding a pair of heavy-duty kitchen shears with the same cold, calculated grip her father uses to hold a fountain pen during a treaty signing.
Her gorgeous hair was gone—hacked into a messy bob that barely reached her chin.
"I told you, Mama," she said, her bluish-green eyes staring me down without a flicker of regret. "Long hair is for princesses. I'm going to be President. Daddy doesn't have a ponytail, so why should I?"
I leaned against the doorframe, clutching my forehead. "You're six! And your father is going to have a heart attack."
