French braids and loving parents

Yes, this is a picture of the back of my head. It's the best I could do alone in my bedroom, both with the picture and with the braid. See, this past spring, I taught myself to French braid. At thirty-three years old. Better late than never, right? 

I've always had long hair, more so when I was younger but occasionally now as an adult I'll let it grow. I chopped it all off in June (well, I didn't, our favorite hair stylist Tony did) and I liked it. It felt nice not to have all that hair hanging around all summer. But then I started to miss it. Mostly I missed putting it into a ponytail and putting it up when I was working out. So I haven't had a haircut since June. And now...it's just barely long enough for this very messy braid. Tomorrow I'll visit Tony again, just for a trim and for him to thin it out. But I think I'm going long (-ish) again. 

So why does this deserve a blog? Because it brought back memories of a class my mom took me to when I was young. I think it was through the Rec Center, which is basically the city of Howell. When I was little, and maybe they still do, they'd put on classes and events that kids and adults could attend - basically community ed. We didn't do a lot of them but once in a while an event would spark interest and we'd take part. And I specifically remember one winter going with my mom to the local middle school for a class.

I remember arriving and noticing it was all women and girls. And all the girls had long hair. The class was about learning to French braid. My mom had brought me here to learn how to do it. I remember being excited at first but then I remember it not going so well. Needless to say, we never went back (it might have been a one-night deal, maybe my mom will comment if she remembers!) and I never had my hair French braided by my mom again. 

Instead, she spent hours putting my hair in tiny little regular braids so I'd wake up for school with the ever popular kinky look (until my other mother, Marilyn bought me a crimper!). She spent hours putting my hair in those spongy pink rollers so I'd wake up with really pretty curls, usually on Sunday mornings. She'd go through cases of detangler and spend hours combing through the mess that was my long hair. I still remember her saying she cried when I was very little and my dad brought me home from getting all my long hair cut off (that was the beginning of my little orphan Annie-curls stage) because she couldn't help me take care of it because she was very sick. 

I never realized until recently how much my mom actually did for me when it came time to getting me ready to go out into the world. I don't want to forget my dad in all of this either. He was always the one designated to take the pink curlers out of my hair when my mom was getting ready for church. And this was no easy task. After having rolled around on them in my bed for eight to ten hours, they were often matted together and more than once I remember yelling when he had to pull really hard.

I am often amazed at how we children become responsible, presentable, mature adults. And it's mostly due to our families: the people who took out the curlers, the people who made sure we were wearing underwear (I always had it on, Angela? well...), the people who put us in clean clothes and washed our faces when if left to our own devices, we never would do any of it alone.

I am blessed beyond anything I could ever imagine every single day by my family. By my parents who tell me all about their days and encourage me to tell them all about my days and regal me with tales new and old. By the childhood I had which allows me to be the adult I am today. By the love that I experience. See what conclusion braiding my hair brought me to? A reminder about how I was and am loved. Oh so loved.