Little Reed, I love giving you baths. And not because I particularly like washing your slippery little body while you cry and cry. But because I love wrapping you in a warm blanket and watching your hair dry.
Oh, I love your hair after you take a bath. I stare at your hair so much that when my own hair falls in front of my eyes as I gaze down at you, it looks completely foreign to me. So thick and coarse. It can’t be mine. It must be the hair of some other creature. Maybe a horse.