Growing up, I was known for one thing: my hair.
No matter my weight or how I fit into the mold of beauty, I was always complimented on my hair. The color, the thickness, the cut. Mostly, though it was the color.
And while I did somewhat tire of it, I could always feel like I had something going for me - even when I felt less than confident in my appearance.
It's something I've passed onto Miles.
From the moment he was born, we were in awe of his copper top.
Even as he lost his baby hair, he remained a ginger - much to my chagrin.
Everywhere we go, Miles is complimented for his hair - I swear it was the topic of multiple conversations last weekend at Panera. There was a table of two women who could not get over it. At. All.
As he grows older, though, it's not so much about the color. It's about the style. A style I can do nothing about. No matter what I do, his hair sticks straight up. I've tried wetting it and then brushing it. I've used eco-friendly, gentle hair products but no dice. The closest I get is a bit of a faux hawk ( a style I'm excited to exploit in the future).
I naively thought that a hair cut might help. We went on Sunday, and I had the distinct pleasure of trying to wrangle him as the stylist moved at lightning speed. She got the sides even and trimmed the top. Our efforts, though, I fear it made it worse.
Not that I mind really - I think he looks cute, regardless ... and I'm a firm believer that parents should have crazy photos of their kids for use during the teenage years.
Note: I understand that this is a completely gratuitous post to showcase pictures of my child. Return tomorrow for regular programming.