My son was born bald…sort of. To be more accurate, I should say he had a bit of peach fuzz on his tiny, misshapen head (that got stuck in mommy’s chute for way too long while attempting to make its grand exit). However, mostly bald is about all we got for…I would say…the first six months or so. And, even when my Jacob’s hair was coming in, no one could really tell it was there. It was thin and blond.
Then, one glorious day, a curl grew. I had always wanted curls of my own. As a little girl with stick straight hair, I spent many a night praying by my bedside for curls. Throughout my elementary and middle school years, I endured long afternoons of stinky perms, restless nights of readjusting my pillow under a head full of foam rollers, and early mornings, hours before the sun rose, hot rolling my hair for school. After all that work, didn’t I deserve some natural body in my tresses? Then, like a mean trick, somewhere around 10th grade my flat hair stayed flat in the front and sides but took on a kink in the back (for a precise mental picture, think of what a 1980s crimper can do. Yes, I live with that as my natural do). Why couldn’t I just have curls?
A few months ago, with that curl on my son’s head, my prayers were answered. One after another, perfect little curls grew upon his darling head, where once resided fuzz alone. One by one they came until his previously (almost) bald head became an adorable garden of blossoming waves and ringlets. And, they grew. And grew. And, we never cut his golden locks. Until one day, a loving look from mommy to son became a triple take, as visions of Billy Ray Cyrus, Michael Bolton, and Rod Stewart danced through her head.
At fifteen and a half months old, he has yet to have a single strand snipped. What to do? After all, “business in the front, party in the back” cannot apply to anyone in diapers, right? Still, I would hate to see him go through life as Jacob Dirt, having acquired a nasty nickname at such a young age due solely to mommy’s curl fetish. Decisions, decisions…