D cut Franklin's hair over the weekend. I say "over the weekend" because really, it's still going on - the marathon haircut.

I think I've mentioned this before - not too long ago in fact.
My my, I'm just so damn exciting.

Franklin's hair is pretty.
I was going to say that his hair is pretty curly but really? I can confidently stop at pretty. It is pretty. I'm envious.
D also has this pretty (curly) hair - as you can see from the flickr photos. My hair isn't this curly - as you can also see from the flickr photos.

It's strange to me that all of you now know what I look like.
Just so you know, if you see me walking down the street, I would love for you to stop and say hello. Pointing and saying the word "dirtyolive" to your husband sitting next to you in the coffee shop isn't as friendly.
I can see you, you know.
I don't bite.
I'm really quite friendly - especially if you feed me.

Anyway, I digress.

When you have a child, most of your family, friends and transit bus drivers tend to play "genetic counselor" and attempt to piece Franklin's DNA together using D, me and our other, somewhat immediate, family members.

It turns out that the freakishly curly hair is a dominant gene. No matter what happens, if a child squeezes out of my vagina, it will have curly hair. This means that if I ever decide to "stray from our marriage", I've got to choose wisely - you know, just in case.

Now my prospective lover(s) must be laid-back, intelligent, funny, nice, discrete, patient AND have course, wiry, curly hair.
It's never going to happen.