Painted Hair
“She’s getting her hair painted,” I would exclaim as a kid as I watched my grandma get color in her hair at the beauty shop. I spent many hours there on Saturdays. I would actually hang out there anxiously waiting for The Sharper Image in the same plaza to open so I could spend my time sitting in massage chairs, playing with remote control cars, and touching all the other cool gadgets they had. Though I’m sure they weren’t excited by my visit, the guys in the store always let me hang out.
The same person who would color my grandma’s hair would go on to shape her wigs for her when she had cancer, and would mourn the loss of her when she passed away 20 years ago. And the same woman still does my mom’s hair and my sister’s hair and mine too.
Though I’m possibly the black sheep of the beauty shop family, I’ve always felt comfortable or at least comforted in her chair. She would do my hair for my Bat Mitzvah, for my wedding, and yesterday she would give me a cut and highlights.
As I sat there under the dryer with a head full of tin foil that she had “painted,” I thought how much I wish some parts of my brain could be painted over, and others could be highlighted.
I thought about how for me what my hair looks like, whether it was longer, or a pixie cut, or the Dutch boy or whatever I had going on, I rarely felt like a woman in my own hair and yet yesterday I sat there and for the first time really felt the beauty in this whole beauty shop thing, in the experience, in being able to be proud of a feature, of the way I look, of being able to own it and like it, and be part of the decision, how it seems that feeling like a woman, that being in charge of who I am and taking responsibility for the choices I make are things I am a late bloomer at, things I’m still working on, and that sometimes being a late bloomer means it comes a lot harder to you, but hopefully you appreciate it even more.
My grandma used to say the phrase “For beauty one must suffer,” and while it seems she meant it about outward appearances and the things women go through to make themselves attractive physically, for beauty one must suffer is really a mantra for how we figure out who we are and what makes us feel like our most loved selves.
