were to sire a love child (and let's just ruminate on that one for a bit shall we?).
gingajoy would be her name. and lo, her hair would be big, unruly, and carrot-ono like in its bushy bigness. and not in a wow, "i have untamed luxuriant preraphaelite locks right now," but in a "i can't even drag a comb through this matted orangey fuzz right now..." there is only so much "for dry, color treated, frizzed out and a bit stringy" hair restorative product one can buy.
this is what happens when i decide to "grow my hair out." this is, i must remember, simply code for "i do intend to go to the salon for 6-9 months because i am too lazy." whereupon i see a photograph of myself and realize that the long and flowing locks i yearn for are in fact beginning to look dangerously mennenite. and stringy.