Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Give Me A Head With Hair, Long Beautiful Hair...

What is with my obsession with hair?

Waiting for Elke's bottle to warm up today, I found myself nuzzling my lips against her scalp, against her little specks of baby hair. Her scalp was so warm and cozy, like a blankie you never want to get rid of. Maybe the softness of her hair and bald scalp actually brings back memories of my blankie, which I used to rub against my face. Back and forth, and then in between my fingers and then in the corner of my thumb, just where the cuticle is raw and chapped.


Then there's Jake. Oh, Jake, my beautiful boy with his gorgeous hair.


Jake's hair is a thing of beauty. The kind of wavy, shiny hair you want to tussle and watch it dance in the breeze. About a month ago, Cason took him for a hair cut. He's been taking him for pretty good hair cuts lately. Except for this last time.

[Doorbell rings. I open door to see Cason. No Jake.]

Cason: So, I think it looks great.

Me: Uh-oh. [Searching for Jake who was hiding behind a chair on the front porch]

Cason: Come out and show Mommy your hair.

Jake: [Appearing] Boo!

Me: [Pretending to be all happy] You got a hair cut! Like, you really, really got a hair cut. [To Cason] It was supposed to be a trim.

Cason: I told them just a little, then they started wetting down the curls...

Me: Never let them wet down the curls!

And so on...

So it's just hair. And he's still beautiful, obviously. If he was bald he'd be beautiful. If he had one eye and no legs he'd be beautiful. (And look at him holding his sister. God, I hope he always loves her like this.) According to Cason, all the playground mommies have brought up the hair. Because Jake's like Sampson with that hair. But it's growing back.

Yesterday, I stood outside of Jake's school, pulling little green bugs out of his hair. Aphids or something that had gotten in there when he was rolling around near the garden. It was like a mystery pulling back his curls, peeking through his milky white scalp, my fingers playing with his locks, all soft and droopy. Like wet flower petals, like silk dripping. And he stood there so patiently letting me peek through the mop which has grown since the hair cut incident.

"You look like a gorilla mom searching through his hair like that," my friend said. But isn't my want to touch my childrens' hair like an animalistic need of some sort? Maybe I am a gorilla mommy. Give me my babies and take me to the jungle.

Giving Jake his morning hug and kiss this morning, I leaned over him as he embraced my hips and wrapped his leg around mine. My own curly hair fell over his head, enveloping him. "You're so hairy, Mommy," he said, laughing.

(Picture of my hair that Jake took this morning.)

No surprise, Andy also has long hair. Straight hair, different from me and Jake. The kind of hair I wished for as a child. The kind of hair that feathers in the wind. When he was traveling in Turkey, I'd email him about wanting to run my fingers through his hair. "But it's so greasy, now," he'd email back. "You know, trying to avoid Turkish baths..." He thought I was joking. But I wasn't.


This picture of him at the beach reminds me of one of my favorite paintings. Just check out the title. "Wind In My Hair."

And the movie Andy and I watched the night we got engaged?

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