Happy Birthday to My Son, and His Hair

Mini Golf at the Mall of America.
You can't see his hair, but I promise it's there.

There are some things a person never forgets.

One of them, for me, was that Monday morning 18 years ago when I woke up with a terrible feeling I had never experienced before: I was in labor.

That eight mile drive to the hospital felt like a million, but we made it. By the end of the day I was holding a beautiful baby boy with a dark brown comb-over. Months later we'd finally get brave enough to cut his hair and find underneath those dark brown locks was blonde hair. And, eventually, that hair would gradually change back to a medium brown. Of course, one day he will grey or bald, depending on whose genes dominate.

The story of my son's life reaches far beyond his hair, though his hair hides a lot of stories.

There was the time a barber tried to calm him down by giving him a lollipop before the haircut was over.  Pro tip: don't do that.  Kids don't like hair on their lollipops.

There was the time I tried to cut his hair the night before school starts, but I forgot to put the attachment on the razor.  I'm glad mohawks were in style that year.

In the big picture, hair is nothing.  Yet God pays attention to even the number of hairs on our heads:

Are not five sparrows sold for two cents? Yet not one of them is forgotten before God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows. (Luke 12:6-7, NASB)

Today, as that beautiful baby boy legally becomes a man, I can't help but thank God for all the years He let me wash, comb, (pay others to) cut his hair, and love him the best I could.