Every morning in our house, we do hair. A cosmic and genetic formulation imbued my children with ringlets that, left untamed, resemble the rough street urchin cast in Annie. Spray, mousse, brush, then pin, bow, braid, or pony. At two, the youngest understands this ritual, and stands quietly between my knees. The only time of the day that this occurs. Otherwise, she is whirling and unsuccessfully hopping; although she exclaims “Hop!” only one foot leaves the ground. Her other foot firmly prevents her from flying. She yells “Wook!” and points at the passing garbage truck. Yells “Wohm!” and thrusts her cupped palm toward me, featuring an overly-squeezed, dead worm. As I work a wide-toothed comb through my eldest’s thick layers of curls, I realize that my back is no longer bent, and that it’s becoming more difficult to part her hair because, as I sit behind her, I can no longer see the top of her head. As she gazes at some interminable cartoon, I comb my tears into her hair, in hopes that it will stop her from growing. But they will just make her stronger. And her hair will grow longer, more lovely, and when I’m finished, she will face me, see my tears, and ask whether I have a boo-boo. Yes, my dove, but you make it all better.