Thick Haired Thankful
Last week, I lugged my vacuum into the living room and connected it to the central vac system to finish cleaning my floors. The high pitched sound of flowing air immediately told me something was preventing the brush from turning in the vacuum head.
Flipping the vacuum upside down, I mentally prepared to do vacuum surgery. The culprit, like many times before, was long hair twisted tightly around the brush, immobilizing it.
With my trusty scissors, I set to work like a surgeon, to free the brush. I grumbled while I was working.
What should I expect - living in a household with four girls that have long, thick hair? It’s inevitable, really.
My thoughts went to the morning in March when I arrived at my Aunt June’s house. We were heading to the airport to catch our 11:00 am flight to Florida. As I greeted her that morning with a hug, my wet hair lay heavily against my neck and shoulders.
“Your hair reminds me of your mom. Her hair was so thick it took forever to dry.”
My mom did have thick black hair. I try hard to remember it in my 10 year old minds’ eye.
I remember seeing it in photos. I remember people telling me stories about her thick hair and how she got it thinned out regularly so it wasn’t so heavy and hard to manage.
My kids never got to meet their Grandma Betty, but in a way, that long thick hair they have brings Grandma Betty close. It’s something they can share with her even though they haven’t been able to share life with her. I like to think that Grandma Betty’s legacy lives on in the long locks of her thick haired granddaughters and thick mop of hair of her grandsons that she never got to meet.
Back at the vacuum, I reflect on my mom’s hair loss in the last years of her life. I allow myself to have a shift in my thinking when it comes to all that hair in my household. I am thankful for hair. For thick hair that clogs drains and twists tight vacuums.
I am thankful because thick hair has become a symbol of health and the privilege to live another day.
Flipping the vacuum upside down, I mentally prepared to do vacuum surgery. The culprit, like many times before, was long hair twisted tightly around the brush, immobilizing it.
With my trusty scissors, I set to work like a surgeon, to free the brush. I grumbled while I was working.
What should I expect - living in a household with four girls that have long, thick hair? It’s inevitable, really.
My thoughts went to the morning in March when I arrived at my Aunt June’s house. We were heading to the airport to catch our 11:00 am flight to Florida. As I greeted her that morning with a hug, my wet hair lay heavily against my neck and shoulders.
“Your hair reminds me of your mom. Her hair was so thick it took forever to dry.”
My mom did have thick black hair. I try hard to remember it in my 10 year old minds’ eye.
I remember seeing it in photos. I remember people telling me stories about her thick hair and how she got it thinned out regularly so it wasn’t so heavy and hard to manage.
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| My mama in middle school. Her hair tied back in a pony tail! |
But I also remember when her hair grew thin and she pulled a bandanna over her thinning spots. Chemo and radiation took there toll on her thick black hair. The Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and subsequent leukemia claimed her life at the young age of 36.
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| My grandma holding me and my sister; Mom with her bandanna |
My kids never got to meet their Grandma Betty, but in a way, that long thick hair they have brings Grandma Betty close. It’s something they can share with her even though they haven’t been able to share life with her. I like to think that Grandma Betty’s legacy lives on in the long locks of her thick haired granddaughters and thick mop of hair of her grandsons that she never got to meet.
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| A few of my mom's "thick haired" grandchildren standing at my parents' grave on the day of my grandfather's funeral. |
I am thankful because thick hair has become a symbol of health and the privilege to live another day.
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