Today as I was walking to school, I inhaled some of my hair. I had to surgically remove it from my esophagus with my fingers. Then it started crawling all over my face and tried to interweave itself in my coat's zipper.
Oh, hair, it's not that I don't like you. I just don't know what to do with you. I mean, here you are, looking lovely and curly in a pony tale:
but as soon as I take you down, you want to make me an 18th century poet:
When I was in high school, I had a friend who said they liked my hair. They said I looked like a female Jesus. That was kind; he is perfect, but I don't recall any scriptures commenting on his luscious locks.
When Jason's hair grows out, he looks like a woman over forty (his words).
With our two hair types, out children could end up looking like this: