People like to say “it’s just hair” because it makes things simpler.
But simplicity is not always truth.
Sometimes hair is inheritance.
Sometimes it is memory.
Sometimes it is the only visible thread between a child and someone they will only ever know through stories.
My son will grow older. He will change. He will decide how he wants to look, who he wants to be, what parts of his past matter to him.
But that decision will be his.
Not mine.
Not his grandmother’s.
His.
And maybe that is what Sunday dinner ultimately revealed—not a conflict over appearance, but a quiet negotiation over autonomy, memory, and respect.
Because those golden curls were never really about hair.
They were about belonging.
And once you understand that, you can’t unsee it.
