tonic

ton-ik

–noun   1.   a medicine that invigorates or strengthens   2.  anything invigorating physically, mentally, morally or emotionally

I read about and have seen women engaging in the task (or privilege) of “styling” a daughter’s hair.   Two particular occasions made very deep impressions.  The first was a moving story I read in a women’s magazine.   Written by a black woman, the article lovingly related how the times the mother brushed out and braided her daughters’  hair were some of the most precious hours of her life.  I wanted that mother!   The second was a time I watched a woman brush out her daughter’s nappy hair and pull it so tightly back in braids that tears streamed down the girl’s cheeks.  The woman held a conversation with someone else the whole time.  The girl suffered in silence.

Then there was me.  I used to put my little girl’s hair in a single waterfall ponytail right on top of her head just to keep the hair out of her eyes.  It took about thirteen seconds.  She was young and neither of us cared what it looked like.  But, I would have my moments…

I admired the commitment these mothers had to their daughters’ hair.  It takes a long time to make dozens of little braids.  Yet, it was obvious that some hearts are full of love and others have something else.  My oldest daughter wore her hair in braids too.  Maybe my second daughter did half as much, and my youngest, well, I can probably count the times braids covered her head on one hand.  She was my eighth child, so maybe I got too busy.  But, they never cried and they were always grateful for my effort.  After I finished, I always thought they looked like they had a mother who loved them.  When my girls were young, having their hair styled by me was a gift.  From me to them.  As they got older, it was a gift from them to me.

My eldest daughter had very long hair until she was about twelve.  When she decided to cut her hair I was openly opposed, loud and whiny, but willing for her to make decisions for herself about how she wanted her own hair to look.  Independence is a beautiful thing that starts in simple ways.  I had to bite my tongue.  She was growing up strong and sure.  So different from me.

In high school, after years of lost privileges as her hair dresser, I got a second chance.  She started straightening her hair with a flat-iron.  She had a little wave, so when she straightened it, it really did look sleek and stylish.  I kick myself for not doing it more, because I could have, but those rushed morning hair times hold very sweet memories for me.  It’s not like we had deep personal discussions.  It was just being near her and helping her in a very personal way that made it so special.  The warm, toasty smell of heated hair mixed with the scent of the beautiful, confident girl who was my daughter made me very happy.  I tried so hard to do a good job.  I had lots of jobs in my home, but this one paid me back tenfold.  When she stopped straightening her hair, I lost something really wonderful.

My second daughter got my nutty hair.  It started out straight and as she grew older it got curlier and curlier.  Just like mine.  But hers was thick.  By thirteen, she had long beautiful curly locks that I adored.  She would be walking down a street and that bouncing head of long cascading spirals was like a flag.  You just couldn’t miss her.  She never asked for help with it except for a trim once in a while.  Until she decided to dye it.  Of course, there was my usual panic and pleas, but it was not my hair.  I yielded.  Her dark hair became auburn, then a shocking pink, then sort of yellow, and now is a soft, pinkish lavender.  It is not as thick as it once was.  Too much dye I suspect.  She came home from a friend’s house with that first pink, but I’m her stylist now.  She knew I couldn’t handle that first radical color change.  She knows me.   I take this responsibility seriously, and I love that she trusts me.  This last time, as I rinsed the dye out, lavender pink tendrils swirled in the running water and I felt so incredibly happy.   I held her close with her head still in the sink and said, “I love you”.  Her immediate echo of my words filled my heart with a matchless joy.

My youngest daughter liked me to curl her hair with those annoying sponge curlers that get the hair all knotted up.  Her hair doesn’t keep a curl very well.  I recently threw those dumb curlers in the trash.  So, I don’t have much to do with her hair now except when she wants her ponytail at the top of her head.  She needs help with that.  Or, if she wants to wear her hair in two braids, I can do that pretty quick too.   She kept asking me if she could dye her hair after seeing her older sister’s color changing regularly.   She is only eleven, so I told her to wait a few years.  One day last month she came down the stairs with the last seven inches of her long golden brown hair dyed bright magenta.  Her sister had some extra dye apparently…  I trimmed the ends to give it a cleaner finish, and it actually looks pretty good.  Quite brilliant in the sun.  Of course she’s the envy of every girl in the fifth grade.  It’s the things you put off  that you regret most not doing later.  I have to remember that when she asks for help with her hair.  I know what it will mean to me later…