"Look at all that hair!" was probably one of the first things Donny and the 16 hospital clinicians hovering around my lovely lady parts said as Kyler was forcefully making his debut. We figured he’d have a mop. He IS Asian. Plus, my mom told me he’d have a lot of hair because I said yes when she asked me if my maternity belly was itchy.
He was blessed with a dark, full mane. I liked fauxhawks. I liked to coerce my baby into doing things that babies wouldn’t do on his own. It was a win-win.
Then, I started going bald at the 3-months postpartum mark, and he decided to join me as an act of camaraderie.
"Hey mom, thanks for being in labor for over 12 hours and pushing me through that dungeon you call a womb. Here’s my show of support."
First it went patchy around Christmastime.
And now? Now the little alfalfa sprout is just hanging around. It’s at the sweet spot where he’s not rubbing it off against his mattress sheet or able to reach it with his arms.
I thought I was going to be all voodoo mom-crazy and save a baby hair for the scrapbook I will never work on because when I have free time, I’d rather do something crazy, like shower or drink some wine and watch a DVRed season of Revenge. (That is some good shit.) But, this picture will play nicer in my digital album, if I ever got a chance to design another one of those too. But then again, having his hair handy would be good for future coercion of things like checking my bubble bath water temperature or uncorking aforementioned wine. I suppose I could always keep one of his adult hairs for that too.
Ah, the last baby hairs. Next up, adulthood, and then putting me in a nursing home.