Having lost a child and a parent before the age of 30, the gift that it is to grow older is not lost on me. But this stage of life has thrown me and I didn’t see it coming.
The impetus for this writing that I feel bursting out of my fingertips like a firehose begins in the 5th grade.
I was a chubby-ish kid. Not shocking, but hang with me - I promise there’s a point. Until 5th grade, I didn’t really REALIZE I was chubby. Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe the reason is that the catalogs I loved to peruse called my size cutesy names like “Pretty Plus” and “Extra Special.” Hmmm…
Back to 5th grade. I was just doing my thing, reading, getting a horrible perm, and hanging with my girls in our club (Girl’s Only, obviously.) And then a bully started calling me a name. The name this rising young star came up with was the very original “Big Bertha.” (Pretty sure he did some hard time a while back, so I guess justice was served.) Anyway, that was the first time I remember thinking I was fat. I stayed bigger than many of my skinny little friends until high school when I started exercising and counting fat grams meticulously. It was the 90s after all. You could eat a box of Snackwell cookies for 0 grams of fat. Life was good.
I give all this detailed background to say that, my whole life, the one thing that people consistently complimented me on was my hair. (Minus that 5th grade perm. Hard yikes.) As my physical appearance got smaller or bigger, my hair was something I actually liked about myself.
In the last couple years, I have thought about not coloring my hair anymore. But that pride has always overtaken any notion I’ve had about embracing where I truly am in life.
I mean, it seems unfair. My children are grown or almost grown. They don’t need me like they did before. I question who I am without the main job of being someone’s mom. It’s what I wanted to be for as long as I can remember. Add to that the other physical things that go along with being “of a certain age,” and it’s easier to see why I cling to something as silly as my hair.
But, I am also reminded that one of my dearest friends, born just nine days before me, has been in Heaven for nearly four years and I feel guilty for complaining about the privilege I have been given.
It’s a delicate tension that I feel so strongly so much of the time.
If my kids are going to grow up and leave me, can’t I keep my dark hair?! 😂 Who even am I if not a brown-haired girl?!
Recently, I have been reading a book that encourages you to really seek the Lord about the things in your life that you’re holding onto instead of turning to Him. I have been praying about it. And, of course, my hair dilemma comes to mind. So, I pray the prayer that you’re not supposed to pray and ask the Lord to let me know for sure what I should do, maybe with a little, teeny-tiny sign or something. I know. I KNOW!
(Sidenote: I believe we serve a God who cares about the things weighing on our hearts, even if they’re small or inconsequential to someone else. So yes, I pray about my hair. I also pray for the important stuff, too!)
Wouldn’t you know, last Sunday, our pastor’s sermon title was “The Honor of Age in a Youth-Obsessed Culture.” I think he read every verse in the Bible that mentions gray hair. Guess what? They’re all positive. A crown. A sign of wisdom. So much for a teeny-tiny sign. And then a post from a beautiful brown-haired friend about her decision to let her “crown of wisdom” shine through. Okay, Lord.
So, maybe it’s time.
But why is it so emotional? If anyone has read this far, can you relate? Do you want to start a “Hair Club for Women” support group? 😂
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