Family

When my daughter gets a haircut, she comes home sad and angry because she doesn’t like it, that haircut, and then her mom washes it again and fixes it, and she looks at herself in the mirror and smiles, and then, in bed, under the warm covers, shortly after, happy, she tells me, Dad, I love my hair.

Yesterday we were having lunch at my parents’ house. At the end of lunch, my daughter, driven by some unknown motivation, asked her mother if Santa Claus really exists. She’s getting on in years, and we expected the question sooner or later. We hoped later rather than soon.