My mom likes to tell a story on me. She's told it at least three times in the last week, so it's sort of been on my mind. It's not something I'm proud of, but it happens to be indicative of my nature.
I was born with black hair.
It grew remarkably fast and by the time I was six months old it could easily be pulled into a pony tail with a fringe of new growth all around my head. By that time it had also turned blond. When I was two it was all about the platinum locks. At four it had settled into a sort of dirty dishwater blond -- not really blond but not really brown. In fact, I didn't really know what color it was because I didn't seem to match much of anything. Eventually I decided that I had "rainbow" hair because of the general mix of all normal hair colors.
The color never really bothered me. What bothered me was that I had straight hair. No curls, no waves, no nothing. I desperately wanted curly hair.
My little sister had bright blond hair that curled naturally. In effort to make myself seem like the lucky one, I set her in front of a mirror and told her that curly hair was ugly. I told her how much people hated curly hair. I told her it was horrible because it was something I wanted but could not have.
I was four at the time.
All through elementary school I would sleep on sponge curlers before a "big" day so I could become my ideal of pretty. By Junior High I had inherited my mothers old curling iron and would spend hours curling my very long, very straight hair into a wave because it was too heavy to hold an actual curl.
I still think curly hair is pretty.
But I flat iron my hair more often than not.
Tearing others down doesn't work. Lying about who you are and what you want doesn't work, it only makes you seem petty and small.
Every time my mom tells the story of how mean I was to my little sister, I feel of a wave of shame. Lately, it has also been followed by a wave of acceptance of who I am. Whether that is a little girl who wants something that won't come naturally, or a grown woman who still hasn't learned to be happy with what she already has in abundance.
My little sister may have cried for a while over what I said, but she still rocks her curly hair and for all I know has forgotten the incident entirely. Most importantly, she still loves me.
While I haven't forgotten, I hope that I have changed. I hope that I am not the sort of person who finds gratification in tearing down others. I hope that I can help build foundations of friendships even with those who I am not inclined to be friends with.
Maybe that way I can prove to be more than what I think I am.
I was born with black hair.
It grew remarkably fast and by the time I was six months old it could easily be pulled into a pony tail with a fringe of new growth all around my head. By that time it had also turned blond. When I was two it was all about the platinum locks. At four it had settled into a sort of dirty dishwater blond -- not really blond but not really brown. In fact, I didn't really know what color it was because I didn't seem to match much of anything. Eventually I decided that I had "rainbow" hair because of the general mix of all normal hair colors.
The color never really bothered me. What bothered me was that I had straight hair. No curls, no waves, no nothing. I desperately wanted curly hair.
My little sister had bright blond hair that curled naturally. In effort to make myself seem like the lucky one, I set her in front of a mirror and told her that curly hair was ugly. I told her how much people hated curly hair. I told her it was horrible because it was something I wanted but could not have.
I was four at the time.
All through elementary school I would sleep on sponge curlers before a "big" day so I could become my ideal of pretty. By Junior High I had inherited my mothers old curling iron and would spend hours curling my very long, very straight hair into a wave because it was too heavy to hold an actual curl.
I still think curly hair is pretty.
But I flat iron my hair more often than not.
Tearing others down doesn't work. Lying about who you are and what you want doesn't work, it only makes you seem petty and small.
Every time my mom tells the story of how mean I was to my little sister, I feel of a wave of shame. Lately, it has also been followed by a wave of acceptance of who I am. Whether that is a little girl who wants something that won't come naturally, or a grown woman who still hasn't learned to be happy with what she already has in abundance.
My little sister may have cried for a while over what I said, but she still rocks her curly hair and for all I know has forgotten the incident entirely. Most importantly, she still loves me.
While I haven't forgotten, I hope that I have changed. I hope that I am not the sort of person who finds gratification in tearing down others. I hope that I can help build foundations of friendships even with those who I am not inclined to be friends with.
Maybe that way I can prove to be more than what I think I am.
I never told you that story to make you feel ashamed.... it was mainly a funny little kid story... kind of like the story of how you kids thought it was a great idea to open a bean bag over the heat vent upstairs and ended up blowing little Styrofoam balls ALL over the house! I think there were little white balls in corners even years later when we moved out! Or the time the squirrels got into the walls of our house and our cat Gourdy found his way into the wall after one but could not get back out!
ReplyDeleteI think you two b*tches should really shut the f*ck up and stop chatting with each other online.
ReplyDeleteGrow up anonymous. They are not what you say they are. They are good honorable, kind, and honest women. If there were more folks like these, then this world would be much much more peaceful. Think before you talk and act such a fool.
DeleteTwo generations of women get to witness what an immature idiot has to say. I think it's rather sweet that you have a good relationship with your mother.
ReplyDelete