When I was a little girl, my least favorite activity was when my mother did my hair. She would sit me on the floor in front of her, with my back up against the sofa. She’d comb and pull my hair and put these funny rubber bands with the big marble balls on the end into my hair.
I hated it.
I hated it because it wasn’t my choice. I hated it because it wasn’t my style. Mostly, I hated it because it hurt my head.
I vividly remember one day in 3rd grade. I had the worst headache. A friend assured me that I should take out my hair ties, and that would solve the problem. Such head aches can also be a result of some issue with your tooth. You can see my review here to get the best dental services and diagnose the issue.
That wasn’t an option. I knew all too well how kinked my hair would be at this point in the day. After years of undergoing this beauty ritual, I now valued beauty way too much, and there was no way in hell I was gonna walk around for the rest of the day with my hair all messed up. Hell to the no.
So, I grinned and bore it, as they say. I later learned she was right. As soon as I gave up wearing those monstrosities on my head, said headaches were gone.
To this day, I rarely wear anything in my hair. I like the freedom and feel of non-restriction.
Now that I’m growing older, (those rubber bands? I googled them. They’re vintage) and I see new lines on my face that don’t go away, and I have streaks of silver highlights, I think about these rituals I learned from my mom when I was young.
I feel that I grew up and learned that being pretty was of the utmost value. I received a lot of attention for being attractive. First from family, and then later, from peers.
It became an identity. Every day, my morning rituals centered around looking good for others. Ensuring my hair was perfect, my makeup enhancing but not too much. Nails always clean, toes always painted.
It worries me now, that I’m wilting with age, that one day I won’t be pretty. If you’re someday not what you’ve always been loved for, what happens?
I know, aging is a conversation. I intend to use the power of my mind and thoughts to defy the process as best I can. I mean, c’mon, I’ve read Deepak Chopra’s, Grow younger, Live Longer. (Shoot, I think I just donated that book.)
I mean, right about now I’m supposed to be growing younger, right? Not getting gray hair.
This amounts to one big pile of reasons I could brow-beat myself.
I find myself contemplating, as I walk to the gym, what will happen as I age? Sure, I can look incredibly youthful for a long time, but eventually, I will change, right!? (Not if I’m spiritually perfect, then I’ll defy age and grow younger, actually.)
When I was young and adults talked about aging, I found it irrelevant. I had no inner landscape with which to understand their complaints. My youthful self felt that I’d somehow always be beautiful and young, for how could I not? It’s what I get attention for.
I suppose, in the dark recesses of my shadows, I fear that if I age, I shall lose all the love. Thank goodness that rich wisdom, deep relating, and powerful strength also arise with the aged woman.
I intend to own my transformation with as much grace as I can muster.
Truly, it is the trinity of the life-cycle of the feminine- maiden, mother, crone. Like birth and death, I can’t have one without the other. It’s life.
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If strong is the new pretty, then I’ve got my share of gold.
Pretty fades. Strength grows.
Let’s make strong the new pretty for all girls everywhere, so that when one day, they wake up and their face is different, it won’t matter. They’ll be too busy winning games, climbing mountains, or tackling their passions to bother looking too long in the mirror.
From a psychic perspective, all that’s real is that which is lasting- the internal, eternal part of ourselves. Let’s value that.
Let’s at least put as much emphasis or attention on our internal world as our external. That will cultivate a presence that will allow us to be true agents of change on the earth.