Shortly after her bath last night, I put Eliot to bed, her hair still scalp-glued wet. Twelve hours later, she bounced outta the sack looking like a Frederic Fekkai ad:
These are some superior genes at work, folks. Because if I dared to sleep with even imperceptibly damp hair, I’d totally roll out of bed looking like a lesser-known member of the Family Stone. Including the mutton chops. Not including the BAD-ASS.