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A thoughtful message was written by Mother.ly's author for the coming people.Letter to a stranger who made my son look like a girl because of her long hair (Fotу: iStock) The other day, there was a party for our family on the street; A woman I hadn't seen before smiled at me and approached my husband. When he walked in, he looked at my 3-year-old son and asked, "Х a boy or what?".I looked down at my long, golden-haired little boy, and then back at the woman.I didn't say the first thing that came to mind was that in these 3 years, my little boy was always the one who wanted to be. Sometimes he awakened to the fact that he was a puppy dog, sometimes a researcher, sometimes he said he had superpower, and sometimes he was just himself.But this woman probably didn't understand what she was asking.This is what my father recalled. Who, even at age 83, was a true Walt Whitman-type male, had worked most of his life, spent two years in a hilly area, and had the advantage of being a lark. We didn't see much of each other, we talked occasionally over the phone. But since I was born, my son felt closer to me than ever. My son was adorably like his grandfather. For example, the way it is. Or as you go. As you, and as you think of the world. But most of all they have hair. They both have long, curly hairs on their shoulders, only one of them is silver and the other is golden.It was really what this or what it was referring to. A little boy with a long hair.I remember when I was in my baby room and with my legs in the air, the baby in the room sent me to bed and looked down at my newborn son and woke up almost immediately. Did I ask him what he meant by that? And he said that the baby's little head had gray hair all over it, so to speak in a rude style.When the nurse put the baby in my hand, I carefully unfolded the blanket, laid it on my chest, and just stroked it on the fine hair of the miracle face. I could only say that from that moment on I was convinced of the importance of my little boy's hair, but honestly it wasn't like that. When he was about 2 years old, I entered into a permanent shampooing, rinsing and drying routine and booked a date for him. The hairdresser put on the cape, and when he began to cut my son's hair, I saw the horror unfold on his face. I leaned over to her trembling body as she screamed and tried desperately to comfort her. It wasn't the same scream I hear when I give her a yellow spoon at dinner instead of blue. Or what comes when we stop the cartoon on dune and tell him it's time for sleep. It was another scream. Хsi. It's heartbreaking sad.The hair took only 15 minutes, but it broke both of us. He sat in the car, falling into himself, with a broken heart. I tried to hold the mirror up and smile. Ubiquitous to show that everything will be fine. But she only shook her head as she said, This is not me, Mom.2 She couldn't put it all into words for years, but she knew that her hair was as much an identity as her arm, foot or eyes. And from that moment on, I knew if you ever change that, it must be your own decision.Her hair grew again and again in an instant, reaching her shoulders again. Occasionally, mainly out of curiosity, I ask him if he is considering retaking it. The usual answer is always "Uh, no, Mom. I love my hair". I always choose to do it completely.Perhaps I thought too much about the answer that could be given to the question that this woman asked. Could the woman just be a new neighbor who's just tried to start a conversation? Or the kind who thinks that the world can be more easily understood if everyone has a small labeled box to put in. When I thought about it, I suddenly felt sad about how tight the world was. Whatever it was intended to be, curious, or anything trivial, it is a great pity that he raised just that when there is so much better topic to discuss.I smiled at him finally."You know what? Ъ a boy or what." Then I kindly patted, turned, grabbed my son's hand, and walked over to our little common bubble. (VIA)Related links: