My grandmother, Jean, had pale skin and dark auburn hair.  As did her mother.

I was insanely envious, stuck with muddy brown, coarse and wavy hair.

Nothing like my mom’s jet black hair or my dad’s dirty blond.

I spent a large portion of my childhood and adolescence trying to get my parents to admit I was adopted.

You have to tell me who my birth parents are, what if I get a disease and need one of their organs?

It’s us, stop asking.

I look nothing like you or mom, and if my biological parents are rich, maybe I can get us a new car.  I doubt Aaron Spelling wants his daughter riding around in a wood paneled station wagon when she could just as easily be dropped off at school in a limo.

We don’t need a limo. You need to accept that we’re your parents.  See, you have my wide feet and thick thighs.

As if being told you are built like your father was, in some fucked up way, a reassuring statement.

I started dying my hair in 7th grade, and only stopped a year or so ago.  It’s been refreshing to not be tied to a bottle trying to hide the bland purgatory my hair naturally resides in.

But, sometime between having my last baby and turning thirty, something started to change.

My mother, my stylist, my friends, and the cashier at the Tim Horton’s drive through have all made comments.

Perhaps I am Jean’s granddaughter, after all.

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Photo courtesy Casey Clark, Studio3

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