The man in that picture is the German composer Ludwig van Beethoven, the brilliant composer who gave us his Fifth Symphony and Ninth Symphony, as well as those standard assignments of piano students everywhere, Moonlight Sonata and Fur Elise.
He gave me his hair.
I have a drop or two of German blood, and although Beethoven left no legitimate children, historians have speculated that he may have fathered several offspring on the wrong side of the blanket. I think I may be the descendant of one of those children, because honestly - look at the man's hair. Mine looks just like it, except dark. But the waywardness? The total abandon with which his hair is throwing itself about on his head? The stick-up-ishness and pointing in all directions? That is MY HAIR.
One day, I'll get up and heave a sigh of relief after spending a good half hour or so trying to make sense of what God and Ludwig put on my head. A good hair day is never really what I have. I use the term "acceptable." An ACCEPTABLE hair day is a banner day for me. But the very next day? It's as if a war broke out between my scalp and my follicles overnight and I look in the mirror with mounting dread and a bit of raw fear. That is an unacceptable hair day.
Today is an unacceptable hair day, which is why I posted a picture of Grandpa instead of myself.
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