My hair, myself

One of my fondest childhood memories is of my mother blow drying my hair while I sat in the oak office chair in our back room.  Though it was long and prone to tangling - terrible, matted tangling, especially on dry days when the Santa Anas would blow through - my mom would always finish the dry by calling my dad's attention to my hair saying, look, isn't her hair lovely?

I don't recall actually liking my hair as a child, but I recall loving that my mom loved it.

My hair connects me to my mom - I have these racing stripes on each side of my head - they're only visible when my hair is pulled up and back, but they're there.  Red stripes, at their center they are the same color as my mom's naturally red hair - the color Joan Holloway pays a fortune for.  Now that I'm getting some grays, I'm preparing myself for the day lose those stripes to my vanity - I don't want the grays. I'm already sad.

Fidg's hair is every color.  Up close, it's dark. In the back, it's dipped in flaxy gold.  But in photos it shines with an orange-red glow that has my mom doing handsprings.

Whatever color grows, I am so looking forward to brushing it, drying it, and calling daddy over to see it.