Mrs. Martin

Daughter,

When I look at your hair I marvel at the big, bountiful curls that adorn your head.

You'll never know how much I love your hair. 

As a kid I always, always, always desperately wanted big 80's hair and every attempt to tease my straight mane left me sad and tangled.

Somehow, I survived the hair famine of 88' and live to tell about it. 

Perhaps because of the more recent trends of straight, flat-ironed hair I can hold my flat hair-head high, wave my hot ironed locks to and fro and look proud.

But still,

Despite big hair being a bit "out" I still wish I had it.  It must have been in 2nd grade when the force became strong within.

The other day as we sat at story time I watched you with your big, beautiful hair looking intently at the teacher reading the short story.  I wondered then if you would always love story time and if you would always have wild, enviable hair.

In 2nd grade I had Mrs. Martin.  (It could have been "Miss" or "Ms." Martin but I swear she was so beautiful there's no way a woman that foxy was single.)

And while 2nd grade was quite some time ago (please stop trying to do the math in your head), I remember clearly how beautiful Mrs. Martin's big, beautiful 80's hair was and the way she mesmerized me each day at story time.

As I looked at your big brown hair I thought of her big brown hair.

I admired her then as I admire you now.

And while I think for most mommies and daddies, they desire more compassion, conviction and courage in their children than they had themselves, I gotta' be (painfully), flat-ironed straight when I honestly say I desire more 'coif' in you than I had.

Well,

All of the above about equally.

But let's be honest.

You're going to hate your hair.

Whatever way it waves and falls you will wish it waved and fell the other way.

Even though I am sure that if God gave me hair like Beyonce I would never smite thee locks with a flat-iron, it is possible I would have hated my big, fancy mane and gotten that Brazilian blow-out that all my curly-haired friends swear by since 2000-something.

Secretly, I scorn those big-haired friends for making tame what was once wild.

If only they knew the mane-envy I have had.

But to my sweet daughter,

I hope you love your crazy hair.

I hereby swear on this Starbucks latte that I will do my best to figure out which conditioner works best, despite my lack-luster attempts thus far.  I heretofore also promise to buy you whatever hair adornments you desire and I'll even consider letting you get corn rows because, let's face it, you have the face to pull them off.

But please,

Do your best to love your hair, the way I loved Mrs. Martin's and yours alike.

I already made you promise the other day so we can consider the promise binding until further notice.

Love, Mom.