My dad flew out this past weekend for a whirlwind 48-hour visit to meet Miss Isabelle. We had a great time. Saturday night we celebrated his 52nd birthday (which is today!) with dinner at Market Street and a famous Morgan Cake.
When I was a little girl, I would not let my mother touch my hair. I would scream and cry and throw fits when it was time to have it combed or styled. I mean, total meltdown. As a result of this, my mom only had a few options of haircuts for me. Let’s just say that me and Timmy from next door had the exact same hair style.
(Not your fault, mom.)
With five kids to get ready for church on Sunday mornings, my parents would divide and conquer and share the kid-getting-ready duties. I remembering standing in my parents bathroom and dad blow drying my short hair. He was so good at it, he would brush it as it dried so it curled perfectly under all the way around my head. I will never forget how his hands felt on my head as he did my hair. The same hands have stitched up my face, they have gently laid on my head during special priesthood blessings, the same hands have washed and dried little Isabelle’s hair this past weekend.
Dad, Happy Birthday, I love all of our memories together. Thanks for coming out last weekend and making more.