The first time I heard Willow Smith’s “Whip My Hair,” I felt a shudder travel up my spine. Within seconds, my four daughters shrieked delightedly. Hands were in the air, torsos swayed and a weird combination of singing and rap spilled from their mouths.
I was horrified.
What was this amalgam of Li’l Kim Disney-esque pop sprinkled sexual innuendo and Rihanna gone wild? How could I let these cold sweat-inducing lyrics spoil the ears of my now not-so-innocent children?
“Aw, Mom!” cried my seven-year-old. “That was Willow Smith.”
Later that night, when they were softly snoring, and resembling the children I wanted them to be, I went on my own YouTube reconnaissance mission.
It was worse than I thought.
What universe was I living in? Were Jada and Will drinking too much of the Scientology kool-aid or were the dollar signs clouding their vision? How had my daughters heard this song anyway? How would I go about banning this? Was it feasible, considering kids all have their own iPod touches that enable them to view this stuff far from their parents’ censoring eyes? How could I justify it? Age inappropriate didn’t seem to cut it since Willow’s age is hovering around that of my two older daughters.
I felt weak in the knees. The world was changing much too fast for me. I can only cross my fingers and do a little rain dance to keep the hair whipping from happening under my roof.