Thursday, November 12, 2009
Locks of Love
It's about the hair.
Someone (c'est moi, oui) keeps chickening out of taking someone else (c'est le petite prince, oui) to get a haircut.
The problem now is that I kind of like it.
His hair is not pretending to be something he's not. It's not pretending he is neat, tidy, or uniform. It's not pretending he is either organic or euro. It's advertising exactly what's inside the box, no assembly required. It's a mess of curls and lines, of gold and copper, of Johnson's baby shampoo and 2 o'clock nap.
It is feisty yet tethered.
It is bouncy yet mild.
It is Grayson and I can't seem to lop it off quite yet. Maybe tomorrow.