Hairy Situations

I recently began recording in a pink faux-leather-bound book all of the random thoughts and pearls of wisdom I thought I should put in writing for my daughters. (After all, mothers aren't around forever, y'know.) I was reminded of the power of the written word while reading back through some of my ramblings. I feel somehow obligated to live out the ideals I've put down on paper, and in that sense, I guess you could say that my writing makes me a better me. (And since there's nobody else I'm qualified to be, I should take advantage of any tool that does that.) Thus, I will continue to write not only for my babies, but for myself . . . I'll jot down the brand of candle I think lasts the longest and smells the best -- not just so they'll know but to remind myself that the cheapest isn't always the best -- and sometimes I'll pour out pages sharing with them what I consider to be the essentials to becoming and living as the women God designed us to be -- again, not just to let them know, but to remind myself of how I want to be walking on a daily basis. Yep, everything from the silly to the sanctified. And perhaps it won't be just my babies and me who laugh, muse, and cry; perhaps my sista-friends and sista-friends-to-be will join us on the journey. (And who knows, maybe even a brotha-friend or two!)

An entry from September of this year:

Always keep at least one set of crummy clothes for painting in, doing other nasty jobs in, and to wear when coloring or highlighting your hair. (An old T-shirt with the original neck cut out, wider, for more comfort and "easy on and off" works great as a top.)

Speaking of coloring hair . . . going super light on your own is not always the best way to go. (As I write this I look remarkably like a woman who has two dozen baby chicks nesting in her hair. Papa Muz is NOT happy. Let's hope Clairol's "Natural Instincts" can help.)

Regardless of the outcome, freaking out over one's hair is not an option for the woman who knows who she is and is comfortable in her own skin. After all, hair is only hair -- it can be re-colored, re-cut, or just plain re-grown should all else fail. Life is too short and too precious to do much else other than laugh or simply shrug and say, "Oops!" and then laugh. (So what if Halloween comes early one year.) To be honest, I've had phases in my life where I actually looked in the mirror and said to myself, "Well, it looks like I'm going through a homely phase right now. Not much to do but ride it out and use this time to focus on other things!" Of course, I know that's easier said (or written) than done, but the bottom line is that it can be done -- the choice is mine. (I truly never loved anyone more or less because she had fabulous hair or hideous hair or because she came otherwise beautifully wrapped or in a brown paper bag. If someone overlooks me because I have baby chick hair, the loss is theirs.)

I'd be less than honest if I didn't admit that, yes, -- I have cried over a bad haircut, but I regret it. And I hearby resolve to never do that again. (It's much more fun to laugh.)