Goldie Lockes

This is some wild hair.



It's like a recurring case of terrible, yet undeniably adorable bed head. We try to tame it: Wet it. Comb it. Smooth it. Gel it into submission. It never lasts long. Just pops right back up.



I've written before about this yellow-tressed genetic curve ball. I still marvel at it in all of its buttery splendor.



Every night, before I crawl into bed, I sneak one last peek at this voluminous do. I run the backs of my knuckles against the curls, then bend low over the crib rail and bury my nose in a warm, downy patch of it. I drink in the loveliness. I smile.



Then I go to bed and dream I'm lying in a field of golden daffodils.