Do you want curly hair?

Eat your crust.

When I was little, Grandma Avonell used to tell my sister and me that if we ate our crust, our hair would grow curly. Or in Kate’s case, it would make sure her curls didn’t lose their splendor.

Just for the record, we didn’t actually believe that eating that hard, dry, often yucky part of an otherwise glorious slice of bread would add the spring my granny deemed so special.

But what if it did?

Imagine: No more perms. No more curling irons. No more hot, steam or foam rollers. Pop a piece of crust, and instant coils. And it’s healthy, especially if you buy that whole-grain stuff. You’re taking out the base of the food pyramid and straight-hair syndrome in one swallow. In a hurry? All you need is a slice of bread. Rip off the crust, shove it in your mouth-I’m sure you can fit it all in there at once-chew a few times and let your esophagus take the wheel from there.

Everyone wants Slinkies for strands, right? Uncrustables would go out of business.

She would have found the cure for the straights.

But, alas, it was a paper-thin hymn. The battle cry of those dreams that you wish came true-the ones you have and even though you’re embarrassed at the idiosyncrasy, still long for their metamorphosis into reality.

Oh Avonell, if only it were that easy.

And then the consternation comes; you realize that all those I-should-be-paying-attention-but-instead-I’m-thinking-about-how-cool-it-would-be-if-our-laun -dry-loops-could-make-us-fly-type of castles in the air are nothing more than something to occupy your mind.

But what if they all came true?

The sense of danger diminishes, and you’re left with wild fantasies. The hopes and dreams of both daylight and the lack thereof. That goofy, perennial dream that you’re a rock star suddenly looms in your consciousness, as manifest as your nose.

Is this heaven? Nope, better. Those pies in the sky that you couldn’t share for fear that your cooking is precariously sitting on the cliff of causing dysentery? Palpable, veracious, luminous.

But what if paradise was that easy?

Then it wouldn’t be paradise.

You wouldn’t need to crawl back to your room after a long day. The big, comfy couch wouldn’t be so inviting. You wouldn’t be forced to fight with your boyfriend over your cellular device while you’re trying to-and narrowly succeeding in-showering. Aromatherapy would be inconsequential.

But more importantly, without the lows, the highs wouldn’t be so…high. Joy wouldn’t mean as much. Boring would be paradise eventually, and that’s just disturbing. World peace sounds like a good answer, but with no hardship, there’s no seasoning. And we all like spices.

Go back to sleep. Succumb to that nagging, torpid feeling. Close your eyes if you want. You’re the next Michael Phelps, without the urge to cross the law. You’re a famous singer. You’re riding off into the sunset on a camel-you’re allergic to horses-with the Black Prince (son of King Edward III). You have x-ray vision.

Dreams don’t exist in paradise, because paradise is the enumeration of dreams whose dream came true when it said, “I want to be a real boy.”

Don’t eat your crust.