My mother has the most beautiful hair in the family. Everyone knows this. It is red, curly, thick, and vibrant. She has a lion’s mane, a constant reminder of her fierce personality.
I inherited only a portion of this greatness, with my red-brown curly-sometimes hair. I noticed this difference while we were getting ready together one day. My hair is only the beginning.
My mother has amazing art skills, turning any blank canvas into a piece so beautiful, it makes the old masters weep. I can only do doodles.
My mother commands respect with every word, every gesture. She struts around, parting the crowd with every swing of her hips.
I shrink away from others in the halls, afraid to cause trouble, preferring to watch and go unnoticed.
My mother is sure of herself proudly declaring “this is who I am!” I waiver, “is this me? Or is this me?” My mother does her makeup flawlessly.
I clumsily try not to poke myself in the eye with my eyeliner. My mother is a fighter, ready to battle it out for what she wants. She’s the sure winner every time.
I like to negotiate, even if it means I get less of what I want.
As we continued to get ready together, my mother said something peculiar. “Your hair is so much softer than mine. I have coarse hair, rough as wood.
But not you, you got the good genes,” she admired as her fingers ran through my hair.
She had a faint smile on her lips as she recounted, “When I was married to your father, I wanted a little girl so badly. I cried when your brother, Kyle, was born because I wanted a daughter.
So every night, I prayed for a baby girl with brown hair and blue eyes. Finally, I got you- exactly how I ordered you.
” I thought to myself, “ordered? Like at a restaurant?” Then I realized something bigger, it hit me like the morning dawn.
My mother wanted me as I was. I was the child who never could live up to expectations. I was the daughter who would bear no grandchildren. I was the child who was bad at math and sports.
I was the child who made “weird” friends. But here was my mother, telling me that I was what she wanted.
Suddenly, I realized that my hair was beautiful too. My mother can paint masterpieces, but I am a superior writer. My mother commands respect. I try to earn it.
She draws in everyone’s eyes, and so do I. I just want to notice other people too. My mother is proud of and secure in who she is.
I am a flexible, winding, changing river, always ready to adapt. My mother does her makeup like a work of art going on display. I would rather put that energy into a book.
My mother fights for what she wants. Negotiating is a much easier path, granting everyone a bit of happiness.
My mother may have the most beautiful hair in the family, but my hair is beautiful too.