When I was a very young child, my dad had an affectionate term of endearment for me. He called me Dandelion. Well, dandelion head. But mostly I was his “little dandelion.”

Why? Not because he considered me a weed. At least, I hope not.

But because I have ultra fine, fly-away baby hair. Hair that, even on the best of days, forms a static-induced halo that obviously resembles a dandelion when it’s gone to seed. And so, for most of my formative years I was a dandelion to my father and, occasionally, when I was behaving, a little angel to my mother. A mother who spent countless hours spit-smoothing my hair into place. That or dampening a small wooden comb she carried in order to try tame my wild hair.

Yes, my hair is still short, blond, and prone to floating around my head in a halo of fluff.

I guess I am and will always be, the dandelion girl.