Based on old family photographs, in fuzzy black and white, I was born a plump-ish baby, a rubbery pin-cushion of slobber and innocence, laughing at the mere poke of a finger. I retain a few visions of my infant years and the ones that are clearest reveal that I was a happy child. By the time I was three, and more closely resembling a complete human form, my head seemed to have advanced further in mass than the rest of my frame. It was noticeable enough to my siblings and, regrettably, my parents, that I merited various titles like Big Head, Big Bean, Eubean, and eventually, Beanhead. You’d think that a parent would avoid such name-calling but my mother seemed to have enjoyed using the label the most. In truth, it was an unfairly exaggerated description but my family enjoyed the cringing effect it had on me. So I was forever stuck with Beanhead and, over time, grew to embrace it, the remnant of an early time when I was in a much cheerier frame of mind.