Today as I stroked my preteen's locks and ironed it straight into glossy strands of awesomeness, I was hit not with the love of a mother but the jealousy of a woman scorned. While this pre-teen, Jennifer Aniston in training, is a loving offspring born from my loins; I have said that I would give her my life but I'm not sure I agreed to give her my hair.
I had this hair once. This full shiny crown of sun kissed blonde. All natural and full of "touch me I'm beautiful and carefree and fabulous". And I'll be damned if I didn't know to covet it when I had it. The way I could twist it up casually with barely a thought and poke in a pin or two and it looked like something from the cover of "Teen Goddess Magazine". Or a few rolls of the curling iron and I was the belle of the ball.
And even though I abused it a few years with vats of chemicals and pink elastic hell in the name of spiral permed fashion, it never turned on me. It always reclaimed it's place in the world of healthy awesomeness. I miss my hair.
I didn't know it was going away. Like a dear friend that goes off to college and you think you'll stay in touch, until you don't. Sure I knew I'd probably not wear a 26 inch waist Levi forever or rock the string bikini on spring break in my 40's but no one ever put up the warning flare that I would lose my hair. Not literally like chemo lose your hair, but lose the awesomeness of teenage hair.
No one would tell me that now when I casually throw my hair into a twist on top of my head that there are just 4 strands left sticking up and out in ways that scream awkward and unkept not sun kissed and carefree.
No one told me that I'd spend hours sitting in a chair so my stylist could foil me up like a baked potato every 6 weeks to retain that sun kissed glow.
No one told me that my long locks would really be stringy wet noodles that begged to be cropped into a more appropriate length for my age.
When I bitched and moaned to my stylist about my longing for my hair of my teens and twenties she casually suggested I try extensions. Dear Lord, I don't change my earrings, I doubt I'm a candidate for hair changes that require pinning and clipping the length of my youth.
So this morning I bite the inside of my cheek as I stroke and iron the sun kissed locks of my youth now firmly planted on this child of mine. I suppose I should relish in the knowing that I have passed on one of my better traits to my girl. She'll probably get my bra size too so I smile a sarcastic smile, happy that life isn't perfect.