Now he’s a guy who watches cooking shows and posts pictures of food he makes with his daughter. Nothing stays the same, and that’s a good thing, but still I remember this one wacky day in the grocery store with my son.
“You look like the Unabomber.”
My son, the one my husband brought back from Nicaragua twenty-six years ago, the one who was all head and bloated stomach, with toothpick legs and arms, and a cry that was soft and mewing like a sleeping kitten dreaming, looked at me sideways from behind his blue hoodie, his untrimmed beard the only part of his head truly visible, and smiled at me.
“Good grief! What’s with the hoodie?”
He pulled it back and flashed me an even bigger smile.
“Now you look like Don King. What’s with all the hair?”
His thick black hair, now streaked prematurely with the tiniest strands of grey, stood straight up on his head, a mad shock of three inches of wild, insane hair. It screamed unintentional. This wasn’t style. This was simply hair.
“Ok, that’s fine. Put the hoodie back up.”
We were driving to the grocery…
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