And he did so with that long, luxurious, thick hair he inherited from me. I lived vicariously through it all the time, and I would like to thank him for all the French braids he sat still for and man buns I tried to get him to wear out in public.
He's always preferred a shaggy surfer boy look, but in this last year he took it to the extreme, and for one very good reason.
His inspiration to grow it out started last fall, when he met a woman who made wigs for cancer patients with their own hair. It occurred to him that he could grow his hair out to make me a wig. The only catch is that it doesn't look like I'm going to be needing a new wig any time soon. The cause remained, and the hair was grown.
He put up with TSA agents referring to him as my daughter on multiple occasions, and I put up with him wearing a constant beanie or ball cap.
But all good things must come to an end, and with the end of summer and my patience for deep conditioner and combing out rat's nests growing thin, the hair was cut.
I've yet to donate it yet (purely out of laziness), but with the first snip of the scissors, I can assure you the process has begun again.
|Letting it blow free on the Cayman sea.|
|The last blow dry.|
|No backing out now!|
|Proud owner of a bag of hair.|