My Mother's Wings

There's a joke that says a man should always meet his future wife's mother so he will know what he can look forward to. As the years pass, we become wiser, more patient, softer. It is the softness that I noticed recently while shopping with my mother.

I recall with great fondness many childhood visits to my grandparents' homes, spread hither and thither across Newfoundland. Each summer my parents would pack up the family car and we'd head out on our annual road trip. As we would approach my mother's childhood home, my sisters and I would crane our necks to compete to be the first to catch a glimpse of "Nan's house". It was always a surprise to see what amazing colour the house would be. My grandfather would paint the house almost every year, and always with a different colour. Purple, grey, green, blue... it was always a happy sight.

As we pulled into the driveway, my Nan would be standing in the doorway with her hands folded across her ample chest, anticipating our arrival. We would be greeted with large, soft, warm hugs and those wet grandmother kisses. I always marvelled at the softness of Nan's skin as her bare arms wrapped around my skinny childish frame. It was cushiony to the touch. Thinking back now, it reminds me of how a tiny, plump baby feels against your bare skin. Such a familiar, comforting sensation.

During my most recent visit with my mother, I noticed how the years are beginning to show their effects on her physical appearance. She's become conscious of the shape of her arms and how the skin there is losing its elasticity. Later that day as she was preparing to leave, I took my mother into my arms and held her just a little longer than usual. My mother may see an old woman with flabby wings; I see that softness that comes with a grandmother's hug. 

A Hair-raising Decision

Gimme head with hair

Long beautiful hair

Shining, gleaming, 

Streaming, flaxen, waxen

Gimme down to there hair

Shoulder length or longer

Here baby, there mama

Everywhere daddy daddy

I admit it. I like my hair. A lot. It's long and shiny and pretty healthy. I don't really have to do much to it to be happy with the 'do. It wasn't always that way, and I've got lots of high school year book photos to prove it! I had my share of '80's teased-out, hair sprayed, poorly dyed, badly permed hairstyles. Hell, I've probably had your share too! 

It started in 1982 - I was an aspiring figure skater, and I hated the early morning ritual of having my mom pull my long hair up into a pony tail. She was from the school of "pull it so tight you look like Joan Rivers post-surgery" pony tails. It was painful. I whined. A lot. So my mother, in her frustration, convinced me to get the Dorothy Hamill mushroom cut. There was even a shampoo for all the girls with "short n sassy hair". That was the beginning of many, many bad hair years...

Probably number one on the list of hair disasters for me was the home permanent. (remember Toni? Remember the smell? And the burning...dear lord, the burning....). Again, my sweet, loving mother, after tiring of my complaints about my mane, stepped in to help. She meant well, I'm sure, but the results were less than attractive, to say the least! I was a buck-toothed, brunette version of Krusty the Clown. Traumatic, to say the least! 

As the years passed, and the perm grew out, I progressed to the ever-popular mullet. Got braces. And glasses, tragically. Imagine a barn owl with a Bichon on its head. Now imagine that in a lovely shade of orange, courtesy of my blonde best friend's bottle of "Sun-In". For those of you who may not be familiar, Sun-In is a product intended for blondes to get that "California look" of sun-bleached hair. Little did I know the effects it would have on dark brown hair... (insert mental image of The Great Pumpkin here...)*sigh*

Then there were the "spiral perm" years. HOURS upon HOURS spent in a hairdresser's chair having my long hair rolled onto hundreds of tiny rods, in an attempt to have hair like telephone cord. Truly the pinnacle of the "big hair" years for me! 

In recent years, there have been short do's (picture Jamie Lee Curtis) and the choppy, layered look that many women can identify with as a byproduct of trying to grow out the extremely short hair cut. 3 pregnancies and litres of hormones later, after the bouts of luxuriously thick pregnancy hair, followed by the months of, "oh-my-gawd-all-my-hair-is-falling-out-these-crazy-hormones-are-making-me-go-bald", post-pregnancy hair, I have come full circle, follicularly speaking.

I am now the proud owner of a lovely head of long, brown hair. Well, mostly brown, at least. Which brings me, finally, to the motivation behind this posting. Everyone loses hair; I heard somewhere that the average is 100 per day. Most people regrow those hairs, with the exception of those lucky enough to have some baldness gene graciously handed to them by an ancient family member. I have no such gene. My hair sprouts freely on all quadrants of my scalp. Maybe it's my fertile mind that keeps it growing... (insert farm animal-related fertilizer joke here). 

I have noticed of late that the new growth is, shall we say, of a much lighter shade than the original hair??? Ok, I'll admit it. I'm going grey. It happens to the best of us. But unlike many of my family members, who shall remain nameless (you can thank me later) I have made the decision to let nature take its course. That's right. I have chosen not to dye. Granted, I will occasionally pluck out a particularly brazen grey strand that insists on poking straight out of the crown of my head like a beacon for passing aircraft. I am always amazed at the texture of these little devils, too... more like a twist tie than a hair, really. Why is that? 

What about you? Are you content to let the years come streaking through your locks, or are you taking a more artistic route through the aging process, via some strategically placed colour?