LAMB: You've undoubtedly inherited my hair, baby girl. Unfortunately for you (both of us, actually), this means tears every morning while I try my best to brush out the knots without hurting you. Some mornings you spy me with a brush in my hand and run away and hide. Usually behind the bed. You haven't quite cottoned-on to the fact that it will be harder for me to find you if you choose a different hiding spot once in a while. I feel your pain, I really do. My hair is nowhere near as lush as it used to be (I blame pregnancy) but my eyes still water when I have to brush out knots. I distinctly remember the sight of a brush in my mother's hands being a cause for major anxiety too. Like me, you will probably end up despising your hair. You will waste hours trying to straighten it and wishing it was different. People will tell you what beautiful hair you have and you will think they are either lying or crazy. Or quite possibly both. Maybe you will even resent me for giving it to you. At least you will have some (cough, many) photos and appreciate its glorious beauty in the future. You couldn't be more beautiful if you tried. Exactly the way you are.