I’ve long held the belief that everybody has at least one physical trait that others find beautiful. It could be the eyes, a finely turned ankle or a dazzlingly white smile, but there is always something. For me, it seems to be my hair. Long, thicker than a horse’s tail, and honey colored; I’ve always been a bit partial towards it. It’s embarrassingly easy to maintain and I suspect that my husband even married me because of it’s golden hue~after all, what true-blooded Latino could ever resist a blond?

All in all, I have been truly blessed by the hair gods. However I realize now that it really was never created for my benefit but rather for my son London’s; for my hair has become his nest, chew toy, blanket, teething ring and worry doll. Not a day or night goes by when he doesn’t burrow himself down in it, entangled in it’s golden tresses, and sooth himself to sleep. This process however, is not as gentle as it sounds, and my scalp as well as any loose strands are ripped and pulled in a most unpleasant way. In the dark of the night, when a violent tug has awoken me from a deep sleep, I often wish I could find a silky haired, lactating doll which I could easily switch places with.

Yet as my baby sister so graciously reminded me, this time is fleeting and it won’t be long before he’s 18 years old and I would give anything to have him small again, wrapped up in my arms, contentedly chomping on my split ends. So I’ll endure the nesting, the aching head and frazzled morning hair for now because I know that she is right.