Ever since my kids were wee tots, we’ve played a game that melts my heart and makes me deliciously happy. It’s called “Hairstyle”-AKA- play with mommy’s hair and she will pay you cold hard cash. Three buckaroos for every ten minutes to be exact.
All three of my kids played this game because they all wanted a little mad money, and I of course, wanted some down time with an extra scoop of hair love–although this game has often hurt mommy as much as it entertained the kids.
So my youngest and I are sitting on my bed a few weeks ago and she is ferociously going after my hair, styling it in some exotic updo that involves multiple rubber bands, a top knot and serious yanking. Kolby has been playing Vidal Sassoon for a solid 45 minutes because she just HAS to have more Roblox bucks to buy a neon ostrich on a design video game she plays.
But all of a sudden, the bun goes from spa like zen to WAY too Kardashian tight. I can feel hairs popping out of my head and stretching beyond a normal bun elasticity. I start to panic. “Oh baby, it’s too tight, we have to get it out now.”
“Ummm, Mommy….it’s stuck,” Kolby whispers.
“Ok, Ok,” I try not to panic. “Mommy will get it.” I dig my fingers around the first band and finagle it off. But there are more. Three stinkin more. And every time I pull off a rubberband I lose another clump of hair.
By the time I get them all off, my head is stinging and I’m holding a birds nest of blonde hair tangled around rubber bands. I look in my little girl’s eyes and see her sadness because she knew I was hurting.
“Don’t worry baby, it’s just hair. It will grow back. Let’s play a different game.”
She smiles as I rub my sore head and we pull out the cat and cucumber videos that never seem to get old and laugh our butts off.
A week later, we are out in the desert at my step-dads playing the same hair game. This time she is mastering a high pony. She brushes and brushes and then pauses and hits me with this little nugget.
“Uh Mommy, I think you have a bald spot. I think I was a little too rough in our last game. Oops,” she giggles.
Oh hell no.
I run to the mirror and pull back my part. My little lamb is correct. Our aggressive hair games pulled out a nickel sized patch of hair right out of my scalp.
Perfect. I guess when I fill out my US census form I can now check the box “single white female with comb over.”
I notice the tension rising in my spirit and then catch a glimpse of my girl playing happily with the dog in the mirror’s reflection.
This is one of those make it or break it moments where I get to choose my perspective. Over and over God keeps reminding me to “Change the Story”–to shift my paradigm and view circumstances from a different lens.
I take a deep breath and force myself to chill because I can’t ruin this sweet moment with stupid vanity, so I shrug my shoulders and think about the absurdity of it all. And I can’t help but laugh. Soon Kolby’s belly laughing too.
I mean it’s not like I have a social life right now anyway with the quarantine. Tonight’s hot date is with my laptop, a frozen low carb Quest pizza and a glass of wine. Hair is optional.
The best part of the whole hair ripping shenanigans? Kolby was so matter of fact when she noticed the bald spot. There was no reticence in her or fear to tell me, if anything she thought it was hilarious. In Kolby’s world, no one get’s in trouble for accidents and a mommy with a little less hair is still her beloved mommy. She fell asleep a few minutes later snuggled in my arms.
I thought about it later that night in bed (after I went online and ordered a hair growth vitamin supplement and castor oil).
Her childlike faith that I would still love her in spite of the mistake was marked by innocence, trust, and ingenuousness delight. Her response was raw and pure. And I am so humbled by her trust in me.
Her story is one of simple faith.
What is my story in this? Losing a chunk of hair is, overall, nothing to get too upset about. It’s losing hair a chunk of hair when you are already in a shit storm that I really get upset about. Just one more domino falling, right? It’s rarely the “thing” we react to that’s sets us off. It’s the thing under the thing ten layers deep. It’s the onion layer of hurts and wounds to the spirit that trigger us.
When I change my story I alter my perception of a moment or a circumstance and this is pivotal to how I respond.
I get to choose to be present with my kid or worry about being enough. I can live in the moment of lauging with my kid or feeling crushing anxiety. Jen Sincero says, “Self perception is a zoo.” I couldn’t agree more.
In the same day I’m all over the place. At O’ dark-thirty I’m an ass kicking athlete ready to conquer the world with creativity and panache, hyped up on Starbucks and Jesus…and then by 2:00 pm I’m dragging ass, exhausted by that masochist that woke me up at 4:00 am and craving dark chocolate to get me through the waves of sad that subtlety creep in. In a 12 hour period I’m both a tiger and a sloth, what is this insanity?
But when I change the story I embrace both animals. I am a self-disciplined creative beast AND a sensitive wounded puppy that just wants to be held. When I accept them both, and love them both my story changes to one of quirky self-acceptance, love and grace. I become like the little child who Jesus says, “come to me.” And I can run into his arms with freedom.
I want to emulate Kolby when it comes to my story. I want the simple and confidant assurance of a child. I don’t want to hide from my failures. I don’t want to cover up my shame with rotten coping mechanisms or the million other ways I hide with a modern day fig leaf.
Can I boldly giggle like my little girl when I accidentally get a little too aggressive with life and tip things over and make a hot mess? Can I go to God with my failures and say, “yeah, I did that,” take responsibility, and then rest in the arms of a loving father who cradles me in His grip of grace and mercy?
I want Kolby’s confidence that I am so deeply loved that my little (and big) oopsie daisies are merely a blip in the light of God’s unconditional love and forgiveness.
In the waning afternoon sunshine as I wrapped up my writing on the patio one of my favorite songs came on. I shut the doors outside so no one could witness my antics and began to sway, imagining just for a second I was dancing with Jesus. Now Jesus might have looked a lot like Jim Caveezal from the Passion, but you get my point. And I felt so safe and loved.
In the light of God, I see myself like Kolby does in her mommy’s eyes. Cherished unquestionably and unconditionally. I love my girl with everything I’m capable of in ALL of my humanity. But God’s love, unlike mine, is not limited by time and pandemics and fear.
This shelter at home will end, eventually, although life may never be the same. Normal is well, not normal anymore. This new life is both beautiful and ugly because it brings out the darkness in us all–loneliness, impatience, and fear. But at least for me, it’s also forcing me to draw close to the only thing that doesn’t change it’s mind every week in a press conference.
So as I sit here on a Saturday night in quarantine, growing out my hair and reflecting, I hope and pray that you too think about changing your story. What would it look like to focus on letting love define you and not the proverbial bald spots?
I pray that you dance with the God of the Universe and let him remind you of his never ending, never forsaking love that no virus or lack of hair can ever take away.
—Samantha
