Why not?
I am trapped underneath the sweet smelling body of a toddler- a mix of naptime
perspiration, metalic play structures and a smearing of sunscreen- her head
perfectly positioned for me to indulge in a longing I've had for too many years-
to play with a little girl's hair.
When I was a child, I would sit in my parents' bathroom waiting for my mom to get her shower and dress. Then she would brush my
wild and recalcitrant hair. This was one of my fondest memories of my mother. That
and being the prep cook in the kitchen when I was old enough to stand on a stool
and reach the counters.
My three sons all had beautiful curly hair. (They still have beautiful hair by the way.) No brushing necessary. Just a smoosh and a fluff. No bows or scrunchies. No bobby pins or clips. I have often wondered if my desire to have a daughter was just so that I could do her hair.
Maybe it's psychological. If I can do someone else's hair, I might be able to control my
own. Or maybe it's about the biblical Samson and the power locked into his long
locks. (pun intended) When Delilah lulled Samson to sleep in her lap and cut his
hair, his strength slipped away from him.
In Jungian Psychology, hair is often seen as an extension of the self, reflecting power and identity. Hair is deeply intwined with self esteem and the way we perceive ourselves.
My hair is most often wild and out of control. It has a mind of its' own. Just yesterday someone
asked me if I had my hair "done". No, I answered. It had woken up that morning
and decided for itself what it wanted to do.
Looking at my granddaughter's beautiful sunlit hair, thick with curves and attitude, strewn with gold intermittently placed, I imagined that her life might be similar to mine as she grows up. She will
fight with her hair. She will straighten it. She will try to control it with any
number of products that will eventually be abandoned under her bathroom sink. She will envy girls
with straight blond hair that catches the sunlight just so.
Regardless, she lets me braid her hair while I process all the inner messages ruminating from the "ladies
in the attic". I am stilled in a moment of permission to play.
With her hair.
With my memories.
Filled with my love for her and the woman she will become.
