You know how art teachers talk about proportions? The human head is usually about one eighth of the total height of a person.

My son, at slightly over six feet tall, has finally grown into the size of his head. His face is long, relative to his sisters’ faces. His forehead is noble, as my mother says, and his nose is a ski jump. Quite handsome.

His hair is long, straight on top and sides with curls starting below his ears. It’s shoulder length at the moment. I ask him to comb it periodically; he combs it when he remembers to, which might be every day but doesn’t look it. I chided him once too often, so he combed it beautifully and then looked at me straight on.

“Mom,” he said, “I don’t comb it as much because when I do, I have the Jesus look.”

He’s right. There’s a definite resemblance to paintings of our Savior. We both laughed, and I try not to pester him to comb it more often.

I’m Mom. It has been my daily objective for years to encourage, cajole, persuade, enforce, and stand on principle with this guy. He’s a good man. I’m trying to let go of what doesn’t matter. His hair is his own.