It was a morning for helmets.
The kind of helmets that happen involuntarily after going to bed with wet hair–the kind that scream at 7:00 a.m., “hey! somebody loan me a hat; I’ve been too cheap to get a haircut in the last three weeks.” The kind that makes wives wince and realize that all that’s missing from their husband’s face is a little chinstrap.
Uh…we had a helmet or two like that.
By which time I wondered if any hat–less than a sombrero–on my husband’s head would be able to disguise the circus beneath it. But, uh, then I’m all for miracles.
That I would turn around and see the same helmet on my son and witness the same how-can-you-not-love-me-when-my-hair-looks-like-this look made me realize it ain’t the size of the hair that matters. Or its eighty-nine directions.
What matters is how fast we can call someone with scissors.