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I spoke to His<\/a><\/em> mother on Sunday (Mother’s Day in England). She said it’s a shame we’re not around in May. And it really is. A shame, that we’re not around as much as we use to be. I adore his mother. And not just because she says “Come to Venice with us” and can run in four inch heels. <\/p>\n ——<\/p>\n I don’t even know if He<\/a><\/em> can swim. I say this because I’m suddenly thinking about canals. We lived by one for five years and spent a lot of time walking along side it and talking about Lewis Carroll. He says he can. Swim. But I’ve never seen him. And I’m not one of those vast right wing conspiracy sort of girls but… <\/p>\n ——<\/p>\n Speaking of fascists, this is a Polaroid I’ve just repaired. The kid with the Hitler-Hair<\/strong> is me. (Actually it looks more like a Hitler Mustache.) My oldest brother – younger by 2 years – is the one sporting the diaper and curls. The baby is my sister. She didn’t grow hair until she was seventeen. <\/p>\n Just kidding. <\/p>\n She was fifteen. <\/p>\n <\/center> ——<\/p>\n The woman in the Hitler Hair photo is my mom. He<\/a><\/em> keeps saying ‘You’re starting to look like your mother’ and ‘I don’t know how I feel about that.’ And always looks very confused when he says it. My mother wont let me cut her hair. But I’m gonna guilt her into it with Locks of Love.<\/a> I’m gonna guilt myself into it too. <\/p>\n ——<\/p>\n My brother won’t stop cutting his. Hair. I keep saying ‘You should grow it out. A lot. Until it’s all curly-perm. That would be awesome<\/em>.’ But he hates the word awesome<\/em> and just looks at me like I’m stupid and then gets really quiet and all mannequin-like as I put hats on his head and say ‘Hold still while I do your face.’ Only he never lets me do his face because he has this thing about makeup and how men shouldn’t wear it. I tell him ‘Hunters can be pretty too.’ <\/p>\n ——<\/p>\n
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