As a parent, I'm naturally inclined to think that my daughter is gifted in every possible way. She's smart, she's beautiful, she's funny, she's kind, she can carry a tune, she can run fast and jump high.
But I'm willing to admit deficiency in one area: hair-growing.
That kid was bald for her first year, pretty much, and even now that she's well past two she won't be going for "baby's first haircut" anytime in the foreseeable future. But she's made some progress. What once was peach fuzz (and that was being charitable about it) is now a mop of squiggly blond curls. The spirals poke out at whatever angle they choose, and no barrette we have found has what it takes to tame them.
Not that we'd want to.
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Her curls elicit compliments from strangers everywhere we go, every single day. They're a subject of conversation in line at the grocery store and, seemingly, a magnet for people to touch and admire. They're also a really kind of lovely, if wild, product of genetic equilibrium. She gets the blond from my husband -- those two have hair of the exact same shade, though my husband jokes that he has less of it as she gets more of it. And she gets the curls from me.
Which is good. In addition to being assigned the "birds and bees" talk someday and no doubt taking the brunt of her teenage angst, as moms of girls do, I'll have the sacred duty of hair cheerleader and hair consultant.
I'll impart important information like the importance of product and the deadly scourge of combs. But most of all I'll tell her that her hair is beautiful, no matter how much she'd rather have stick-straight hair (which, believe me, at some point she will). And then I'll teach her what I know about working those curls for good, not for evil. Most of the time.