In Ava’s forest of cuteness, one of the tallest trees is her hair. Leah likes to keep it nice and tidy, pigtailed, braided or otherwise pulled back, smoothed, and constrained.
I like it messy. In fact, I think Ava is often at her best, aesthetically and emotionally, when she first wakes up in the morning. Her hair is tousled and crumpled and hanging down in her face and all over the place. I guess I can’t really say exactly why I think Ava is so cute this way, but I suspect it might be a reaction to my own youth spent as a primped toddler.
Here I am in August 1972, just shy of my second birthday. Judging by the neatness of my hair and the nattiness of my attire, I can only conclude that it was my grandmother who was behind the lens this day; her fingerprints are all over this scene (we now use that bent-wood rocker my mom’s in here to coax Ava to sleep some nights).
I think I may have actually had Ava beat in the hair department at this age, but then my mother’s side of the family is known for its hair, thick and luxurious and prematurely silver-white (that last hasn’t hit me quite yet). Of course Ava has it all over me in the smarts, personality, and charm departments, so hopefully she doesn’t mind conceding the hair win.