The Hullabaloo About Hair

It speaks volumes without us saying a word. Can start a conversation and shut it down. Provoke pride, prejudice, peace, and passion. With or without our permission. It reveals bold beauty and secrets we rather it didn’t. Shouts from the rooftop whether we want it to or not. Propels us forward. Sets us back. Seduces and betrays us. Speaks to our inimitable identity, but says little of our soul’s desire.

One. Bridge of Belonging

“They are terrible,” Julie exclaimed on our ZOOM call, noticing the white. She tilted her head forward, revealing a stripe down the center of her beautiful black hair. “I haven’t had time to get my roots done,” she disclosed.

“Well at least you don’t have cover up any wrinkles,” I reassured her. “I keep getting blonder highlights hoping if I can get to country singer blond no one will notice,” I joked. This is what women I love do. Offer up a me too. Create a community that can hold untold realities. Julie is a new mom. I am a middle-aged mom. We are colleagues.

She doesn’t know about the intense parenting struggles I’ve faced these past several months. Just the humorous highlights I share. I do not know if her exposed roots are a sign she’s relishing every second with her newborn– or something else is at play.

Vulnerability over vanity can touch the heart of humanity.

Two. Pulpit of Possibility

Cheetah. That was his final choice. I advocated for Zebra­ but failed. I did refrain pointing out the obvious link to streetwalkers and mall-shoppers. And in a proud parenting moment opted not to whisper so cheesy under my breath.

Joe had a harder time keeping his mouth shut. “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” he stated. His fear of potential fall-out frequently betrays his intended nonchalance. “I mean what if we go visit your coach at JWU? And senior night is this week. And Thanksgiving and Christmas are around the corner.”

I shot him my full-bullfrog, eye-bulging stop look. He knitted his eyebrows into a Are we really going to let him do this question. I smiled my sweetest yes, we absolutely are, and you are going to go along with it– unless you want World War Fifty to erupt and ruin any chance of us getting through Season Two of Tulsa King.

The next night Finn called from the hair coloring aisle at CVS. “I found the platinum blond, and the black, but I can’t find the right light brown,” he said frustrated.

“Your hair is already brown, so you only need the other two,” I replied.

“My hair is not the right shade of brown,” he retorted. Nonsensical lines of argument that last over five minutes give me unbearable levels of anxiety.

 “Maybe I should do hot pink in the center… or light blue,” he pondered allowed. I could picture him out in the wild. Stalking box after box. Preparing to pounce. Unfortunately, his ADHD medication had long worn off long ago, and we could easily be debating the pros and cons until I had a full-blown-panic attack or CVS closed.

“Here’ the deal, I support whatever decision you make, but you must make one now. Right now. Or we will do this tomorrow and I can come with you.”

Tomorrow was not an option for him. So, we hung up and he came home with hot pink. He disappeared into his bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he came down with half a zebra head. He looked at us excited and proud, like a little kid.

“Oh my God, you went Zebra. I love it!” I exclaimed. “You did it perfectly,” I commented inspecting the well-drawn lines. Joe was silent.

“Dad, will you do the rest?” Finn asked, “I can’t reach it”.

“Absolutely,” I answered for Joe knowing we’d need a minute to reframe the situation, “We’ll be right up.”

Finn disappeared upstairs.

“This is happening,” I said. “We can join in the joy or ruin the moment– but he’s wanted to try this out for a long time, and we’ve said no. He is playing with style, with expression, with who he wants to be. Like me with words or you with guitar.

Joe’s face softened. “Okay,” he said smiling. “I hear you. Let’s do this.”

Life is experience. Experience is experimentation. None of us know where we’re going. Just that it’s better to do it together.

Three. Traitor of Truth

My phone rang. I answered immediately. “How was parents’ weekend?” I asked.

Jenna paused, “Atypical I’d say. Ainsley didn’t want to do any planned activities. They wanted to pick up garbage. So, we bought garbage grabbers and cleaned up campus for a couple hours. On the way back to their dorm, they said they were thinking about shaving their head,” she said exhausted.

I took a deep breath. “Got it,” I replied. “Kind of awesome they wanted to do something to help the world,” I acknowledged, “But I imagine not exactly what you were picturing,” I guessed.

“We weren’t expecting tailgating and football games but thought maybe a walk around town. And I just don’t think they need to make life any more challenging than it already is,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “It’s so hard wanting to protect their future self from their present decisions without stifling their self-expression.”

“I tried to express that it sends one of two messages,” Jenna explained. “Either you are sick or angry. Neither of which is true.”  We sat in silence for a minute.

Thoughts raced through my head. I knew what Jenna meant. But I imagined Ainsley was sick of being seen as female. And how could they not be angry– struggling with a gender crisis on top of college pressures and normal confusion about being a young adult.

“To finish the story,” Jenna concluded, “They called while we were driving home the next morning to say they’d done it. And regretted it.” I winced. For Ainsley. For Jenna. For my hope that it would be a bold declaration of freedom.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, searching for something remotely useful to offer.

“I know it will grow back… It’s just heart-breaking to see them struggle with a body that betrays who they are.”

There is no map for navigating identity. No parenting GPS. The path is unpredictable. Sharp lefts. Impossible inclines. Sensational straightaways. We choose a direction and drive. Worry and wonder ride side-by-side. Love leading the way.

Four. Landscape of Loss

“The pictures from the scrimmage look great,” I said handing my phone to Joe. He grabbed it, excited to see them; then nodded tersely and tightened his lips.

“Leo will love them,” he commented. His receding hair line was like a storm cloud on a sunny day. Joe’s general disposition is 98% golden retriever. It doesn’t matter how handsome I think he is– his hair loss brings him down. A metaphor for what is gone. And unlike Ainsley, his will not grow back.

“Hey, I found a top-rated doctor in Turkey who does the stem cell hair replacement,” I relayed optimistically. Joe half-smiled but didn’t look up. “Maybe he does facelifts too, and we can get a two-for-one,” I added jokingly.

“Thank you for doing the research. Not ready yet, but good to know,” he replied. “Hey, I’ve been looking at villas in Tuscany. There’s a program to revitalize villages. We could get a fixer-upper for practically nothing,” he said.

“Sounds perfect,” I replied, “except for our jobs and children and life.”

“No need to bring reality into it,” he joked.

We always migrated away from the hair conversation. Chemotherapy had saved 25-year-old Joe from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma but left him bald. Stripped his identity. His job. His love life. His manhood. It has been over thirty years since then. He is the picture of health. Vibrant. Strong. Full of joie-de-vivre. But pictures present a conflicting reality. Remind him of what is missing. Of where he’s been. But they can’t hold us back from where we are going.

Five. Tabula Rasa

Bald Eastern European baby. That’s what our son Leo looked like for the first year. No hair. Eyelashes for miles. Irises so big and blue, they seemed to hold the ocean. Smile so wide, the meadows could have fallen inside. Life was new. The world was new. Every experience was the very first.

Time races by… We plan and prepare. Live in the future and the past. Forget each moment is still our first. Forget we don’t know which hello will be our last. This sip of coffee is not quite the same as the one before. This time I look at the telescope it is no longer an object on the window ledge but a new way to see the world. The world I run through every day.

When Leo and Finn were little, we used to go acorn-hat hunting in the backyard. I’d double bounce them on the trampoline. Put honey-nut Cheerios in a mug and read them poetry. Cut their hair myself. Our hair was of no care. Mine in a knot on top of my head. Our hearts running wild. Boy on both sides. Hands clasped tightly. Excited for the adventures ahead.

Everything is only what we make it. Nothing matters more than the life we are making. If it doesn’t serve me, can I let it go? This is the question I’ve been asking myself lately.