Our friend, Juan Carlos, the hairdresser, was over to visit you the other day. The conversation went something like this:
JC: "This child is going to have her father's hair. Me: "I know! What's so annoying is that her mother's hair is so much better than mine." JC: "Tell me about it!" Me: "Oh yeah, I forgot that was your area of expertise."
Nora, your mother has wonderful hair. Depending on how she spends the 15 minutes after a shower, her hair is either perfectly straight or playfully curly. My hair is boring, straight, and bodiless all the time. Juan Carlos has done both your parents' hair, and he knows the quality of each. Sorry, but you've got some terrible luck in choosing my genes.
On a side note, the Spaniards cannot stop calling you rubia (blond) "like your father". Apparently the Spaniards see anything showing slightly non-Moorish descent as "blond". I'm as blond as Barack Obama is black: not really at all, but enough to be labeled as "of different descent".