After her dad found a new wife, my 10 year-old daughter sat me down on the sofa. "Mom, describe your perfect man. Hair, eyes, height . . . everything."
Her tawny hair was swept back from her forehead and the long plait she'd worn since kindergarten extended down her back to her waist. I don't recall the colors of the rubber bands on her braces, but I'm sure they didn't match her Girl Scout Uniform. She crinkled her forehead.
I looked into her somber brown eyes, interpreting their message. "Well," I said, "At my age he's most likely to be bald."
"What about his eyes? Blue, brown, grey, hazel?"
She patted my hand. "Okay."