The dreadlocks were glorious. Brown, with streaks of gold, they flowed down the young man’s back ending at his waist. I wondered how he had gotten them so long, and so uniform. I wondered how heavy they were. I wondered how he washed them. Does one wash dreadlocks? Now understand that I am not a lover of this particular hairstyle. Call me an old fuddy-duddy, but I generally appreciate a head of flowing, fluffy, just-washed looking hair. I tried the hippie thing years ago and it just wasn’t a good fit for me. If I never smell patchouli again, I shall die a happy woman.
I almost missed a birth in my kitchen the other day. It was the birthing of a dream; an idea that, once conceived in my youngest child’s mind, was demanding to be born. “I want to fly, Momma.” She stated matter-of-factly. “Can we buy a helium tank and some balloons?”
Being the proverbial wet blanket, I continued loading the dishwasher and listed all of the reasons why we could not bring her idea to fruition. It would never work. We could never afford enough helium. We would need special equipment. On and on I imparted practical wisdom which I assumed would settle the matter. I was mistaken. My youngest, like many a family ‘baby,’ is stubborn. Bone-deep stubborn. “Can’t we at least try?” Something in her tone took me aback. She was serious. She really wanted to try this.