So here's a true story about me:
I have a daughter who is turning three on Thanksgiving. This will be the third birthday I've celebrated with her--the only one I missed out on was her actual birth. So, day of birth aside, we've spent some time together.
During that time, my daughter's hair has grown [out of control]. It's grown and it's grown and because maintaining hair is the responsibility of the parent, I've made numerous appointments to cut her precious little afro. I have not, however, pulled the trigger.
Why, you ask? It's just hair, you say. Wild hair, for that matter. Why don't you just take that baby [not at all a baby anymore] to a Great Clips and get her shaped up?
Well, aren't you smug.
I think I mentioned earlier, I've tried. I really have. But beyond the fact that my little lady would sooner stick her hand in a wood chipper than sit in a salon chair, I. Just. Can't. I could lie to you. I could let all this be her fault--that's at least half the truth. But it's the other half of the truth I'm going to admit to you right now.
The truth is, every time I try to get it cut, I look at all those damaged ends and wonky curls and I think, this hair grew in Ethiopia. I think, this hair was on her head when her mother gave birth to her (please, moms who have birthed children and know that hair eventually falls out, sshhhh). I think, the nannies she won't be able to remember slicked this hair straight to her head on her Gotcha Day because babies with straight hair must have easier lives. I think, this hair, if it had stayed in its homeland, would maybe one day be done in this elaborate hairdo.
And then I cry.
Because right now I have the happiest baby in the world. Right now she doesn't know all of the things she's lost--her mother, the arms that held her that first year, her heritage. Right now, she has her ponies and her babies and so many people who love her so hard they're going to cry too when they read this.
But someday. Someday she'll grow to comprehend not just everything she has, but everything she had to lose in order to live this life here with us. And I just think that painful realization will be easier for her to swallow if she has a really out of control head of African-grown hair!
Yep. I get it. It's dumb. Sentimental and sweet and all about how much I love my child. But still dumb.
So I've made another appointment. We're going to celebrate her third birthday this weekend with ALL HER HAIR INTACT. But Monday is go time. Monday we're all going to the salon and we're all going to get haircuts because that's what families do. We grow hair together, and together we leave it behind.
For most of us, the leaving behind is easy. We have tangible records of the lives that are lived as the hair is grown. But not all of us. For some, the only proof of a life lived is in the hair, on the skin, in the deep part of the soul that is as untouchable as the wind.
How can I not be sad about the deep part? The place where there are questions without answers. My baby has scars that tell stories we don't know, and her hair has run through loving fingers on hands she'll never hold. I kiss those scars, I hold those hands, and I preserve that hair because it's all I can do to honor the part of her story no one will ever be able to tell.
But here's the thing. I'm her mama now. That hair is my responsibility, and it's time. I'd like to think her other mama has been up in heaven rolling her eyes at me for at least a year now. She might cry a little when that first cut happens. Hopefully she's touched that someone loves her baby enough to agonize over even the basics.
And then she'll say, in a language only mamas understand: It's time to let go. Cut the damn hair already.
I have a daughter who is turning three on Thanksgiving. This will be the third birthday I've celebrated with her--the only one I missed out on was her actual birth. So, day of birth aside, we've spent some time together.
During that time, my daughter's hair has grown [out of control]. It's grown and it's grown and because maintaining hair is the responsibility of the parent, I've made numerous appointments to cut her precious little afro. I have not, however, pulled the trigger.
Why, you ask? It's just hair, you say. Wild hair, for that matter. Why don't you just take that baby [not at all a baby anymore] to a Great Clips and get her shaped up?
Well, aren't you smug.
I think I mentioned earlier, I've tried. I really have. But beyond the fact that my little lady would sooner stick her hand in a wood chipper than sit in a salon chair, I. Just. Can't. I could lie to you. I could let all this be her fault--that's at least half the truth. But it's the other half of the truth I'm going to admit to you right now.
The truth is, every time I try to get it cut, I look at all those damaged ends and wonky curls and I think, this hair grew in Ethiopia. I think, this hair was on her head when her mother gave birth to her (please, moms who have birthed children and know that hair eventually falls out, sshhhh). I think, the nannies she won't be able to remember slicked this hair straight to her head on her Gotcha Day because babies with straight hair must have easier lives. I think, this hair, if it had stayed in its homeland, would maybe one day be done in this elaborate hairdo.
And then I cry.
Because right now I have the happiest baby in the world. Right now she doesn't know all of the things she's lost--her mother, the arms that held her that first year, her heritage. Right now, she has her ponies and her babies and so many people who love her so hard they're going to cry too when they read this.
But someday. Someday she'll grow to comprehend not just everything she has, but everything she had to lose in order to live this life here with us. And I just think that painful realization will be easier for her to swallow if she has a really out of control head of African-grown hair!
Yep. I get it. It's dumb. Sentimental and sweet and all about how much I love my child. But still dumb.
So I've made another appointment. We're going to celebrate her third birthday this weekend with ALL HER HAIR INTACT. But Monday is go time. Monday we're all going to the salon and we're all going to get haircuts because that's what families do. We grow hair together, and together we leave it behind.
For most of us, the leaving behind is easy. We have tangible records of the lives that are lived as the hair is grown. But not all of us. For some, the only proof of a life lived is in the hair, on the skin, in the deep part of the soul that is as untouchable as the wind.
How can I not be sad about the deep part? The place where there are questions without answers. My baby has scars that tell stories we don't know, and her hair has run through loving fingers on hands she'll never hold. I kiss those scars, I hold those hands, and I preserve that hair because it's all I can do to honor the part of her story no one will ever be able to tell.
But here's the thing. I'm her mama now. That hair is my responsibility, and it's time. I'd like to think her other mama has been up in heaven rolling her eyes at me for at least a year now. She might cry a little when that first cut happens. Hopefully she's touched that someone loves her baby enough to agonize over even the basics.
And then she'll say, in a language only mamas understand: It's time to let go. Cut the damn hair already.
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