(Image is the from-above view of my upper chest; my grey curls lie on either side)
This is what I see when I look down at the breasts that fed my children. My hair spirals toward them, almost playfully. It’s grey, but lately it seems more blond. I am loving the crazy wildness of my hair.
My hair is actually a perfect metaphor for me.
Like most of us with curly hair growing up in the 70s/80s, I despaired at the frizziness. Tried so hard to be like everyone else, tried so hard to achieve that silky smoothness of Marcia and Jan, Laura and Mary. Only the more I brushed (100 strokes!), the frizzier it got.
Over the years I have cut it off entirely, over and over again, hoping to trick my hair into re-growing straight.
Finally just giving up. Letting it get dirty and noticing how much healthier it looks. Finger-combing as much as possible, using a comb gently only on wet hair. Only rinsing it or washing it with conditioner. Shampoo only once every ten days or so.
Allowing it to get dirty, absorbing the natural oils that were finally given permission to do what they do. Which is bring out the waving, curvy, spiraling, complicated essence of my hair, and my self.
I welcomed my grey - I have never dyed it, never tried to hide it. It was only by following my intuition rather than instructions that I began to see its beauty. By rebelling against societal norms - the idea that grey was something to be hidden or changed - I began to see its power.
I let it be what it is.
And what it is - is gorgeous.
Self-acceptance, such a beautiful and difficult and awful and joyful and radical thing to find. There all along, growing right out of me, waiting for me to notice.
My grey hair reaches toward my breasts like I reach for my adult children - with playfulness and admiration and unconditional love.
Happy Mother’s Day, my body.