Hair

My daughter has hair like Louise Brooks. It’s a brown, shorter than chin length bob with bangs. We wash it once a week. It’s always sleek. If she forgets to brush it it still looks fine. Half of the women I know would die to have hair like hers.

She wants to grow it out. We’ve tried that; it doesn’t work. I’ve told her she can have it long when she’s the one to wash it. I feel badly though, of course she wants long hair; she wants to be a princess.

This morning she tells me she wants curls. She wants to put gel in it so it’s curly like mine. (I have just past shoulder length, red, wavy hair.) I don’t even own a curling iron, so it’s not going to happen today.

I wish she could be happy what she has. Of course, I am not happy. I dye my hair, I get a different hair cut every time.

Ann Lamott described her son’s looks as, “a cross between Cindy Crawford and God”. The same is true of my baby girl.

If only we saw ourselves the way we really are.

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