Chopped Liver

My baby girl loves blondes. Female ones, of the longhaired variety. One glimpse and she's riveted. Awe struck. Devoted. She seduces them into picking her up, all pudgy flailing arms and big blue eyes, then commences to stroke their long locks while gazing at them in utter adoration.

It started with Nanny-You-Are-My-Sunshine-Landon. She's beautiful in that way only 20-year-olds can be and she used her perfectly highlighted mane to curry favor with my little girl from day one. The prospect of running her sticky little fingers through that golden goodness compels unprotested naps and lick-the-platter-clean lunches from the Mamacita.

Next came Yarka (see previous reference to Scandanavian trollop), our swimming instructor. The salty elixir all around (same previous reference) is quickly forgotten as Theron holds her breath and plunges underwater toward her flaxen idol. For Yarka, I think the kid could execute a perfect backstroke.

Yesterday a complete BLONDE stranger caught the Mamacita's eye as we passed her in a parking lot. Theron directed a friendly shriek in the direction of the Fair-Haired and when that failed to get the woman's attention she offered mournful wails while wriggling maniacally in my arms. If only she could beam herself at will. Blondes all over the city would be terrorized by the magically materializing armful o' baby.

Now me, I'm all dark locks and short styles. Not a particularly effective look for coaxing Theron's good will. When the time comes for potty training there is only one solution. I'm buying a wig.


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