For first grade, my six-year old daughter wanted a mohawk. "Sure," I said. "Why not?"

At the tender age of six, there's not a lot of decisions a kid can make, save for ones that revolve around their clothing, and in my daughter's case, her hair. "If that's what you want, we'll get it done," I told her.

In my world, this wasn't a hard decision: it's her hair, she can cut it how she wants. My daughter, early on, wanted her hair pixied and bobbed, straying from the long-haired narrative that follows girls.

This decision brought forth a frothing rage from her father, who decided I was out to ruin our daughter. This is a man firmly locked into the 1950's, where feminism is a slur and girls should sit down and shut up, preferably decked out in a dress and with their hair midway down their back. This is a man who uses all manner of slurs without compunction, who is unashamed, even proud, of this fact, and firmly set in his ways, immovable even against the soundest logic.

He claimed I was trying to set our daughter against him, turn her gay (we won't even delve into that stupidity), and sundry other things. Dialogue with him is always draining, but as he made the cutting of hair into a crusade of ugly words. MohawkGate was born.

Looking back, it's funny to define it as such, because it set the precedent for my daughter to use her own voice for the first time. 'This is my body, this is my hair,' she told him, much to his explosive anger, and I was there support her. The narrative of consent is an important one within my household; it does not just revolve around sex and romantic touch, but the taking control of one's own body, even in the face of the adversity that comes from our loved ones.

I am proud of her.

I am not happy she is caught in the glare of his hatred for all things he deems "lesbian" and "unfeminine," as if these things were mutually exclusive and also wrong, as if a woman's worth is determined solely by how classically "delicate" and beautiful she appears to men.

Her mohawk is lovely; it is an extension of her creativity and her own personal style. It has changed her in no way, except that now she takes more interest in styling her own hair, coloring it with hair chalk, showing it off. The same radiant child who wore a pixie cut, and before that, long flowing locks -- she is the same glowing, dewy-eyed child who regards the world from beneath her mo-hawk, if only a little more confident.

My daughter's self-worth is not defined by any person aside from herself. She is not an object to be sexualized; I cannot begin to form words that span the breadth of my anger on that front. She is not a long-haired, simpering clone of either of us; she is her own person, with wants, needs, and desires. This simple truth is not only evaded by him, but outright rejected, as parenthood equals possession in his mind.

And while he has been unreachable in this regard, I will continue to encourage her to make decisions for herself, even if they are hard and met with resistance. Ultimately, what matters is how she feels about herself, from her hair to the innermost core of her heart, and no one aside from her can make that judgement for her.

"Mohawks are not just for boys," she said. "They are for everyone. Never say no to a mo-hawk."

Teach your children to be independent, to question, to wonder. It is one of the greatest gifts you can ever give them.