When I was pregnant, my husband and I would often sit and wonder -- like all parents-to-be do obsessively -- what our kid would look like. Would she be the spitting image of her mother? Would she be the girl version of her dad?
When Nora arrived on the scene, we took an inventory and found bits of both of us. My eyes, my nose, Geoffrey's ears, his mouth. But we had to wait quite a while to figure out whose DNA reigned supreme in her hair.
As it turns out, it's a draw. She's got my curls and my husband's dusty blond color. So that settles that. Now the bigger question is what the heck to do with it?
It's getting really long, but it sort of grows up and out, so a haircut isn't really what's needed. She refuses to wear bows or endure the indignity of a ponytail holder (we'd require about 12 of them anyway to contain all those curls), and a headband isn't compatible with her glasses. So we let her hair run wild, because what else can we do?
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Mostly, it's a look that works for her. She's wild and crazy, but impossible not to love -- just like that hair. Strangers can't resist touching it, and even though I get a mouthful of hair when I kiss her head, it's still one of my favorite places to smooch. We avoid tangles by dousing her with detangler and we comb with fingers, not a brush (protip for you parents of curly-tops out there -- it's a lesson I didn't learn 'til college or so, and I have the horrific middle school yearbook pictures to prove it).
But sometimes, at least this time of year, static electricity can make everything go haywire. (See photo attached to this post.) Yeah. That? Is a problem.
But right now, at age 2, she just plain doesn't care. And that's beautiful.