“teenage thyroid case” comment stayed with me. It seemed such an elaborate thing to say to make a simple point. She always said she was just being helpful, and I believed her. I continued to believe her against all reason. Was she trying to save me from ridicule? Did she not want me to look pretty? What on earth did she have against my hair?
Just after my very first haircut, when I was three, my mother gathered up the little wisps—they were about five inches long—fine baby hair that had actually spent time in her womb. She tied each small bundle in a red ribbon and sent one each to my grandparents as a memento of my youth. My father still had one, in his dark wooden box of special things, when he died. It rested among the cufflinks. As a child, I found this particular wisp in its red ribbon. Even then, I recognized the tiny package as a souvenir of my innocence. She didn’t always hate my hair.
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