Seeing life in Depression hair

I've been frustrated with my hair recently.

No matter how carefully I gather it up, and bind it into my braid, there is this chunk that falls down and just hangs there. It reminds me of that famous photo from the depth of the Depression years: the worn, exhausted mom with her waifs of children. They're all shabby and smudged, and pieces of her hair are straggling down. That's what I think of when I catch sight of myself with my hair wisping and falling down. It's frustrating. I don't want to look all bedraggled. It looks messy, and it makes me seem tired and sad. It makes me look like someone who is not doing well.

A while back, I was looking in the mirror, about to fix that hair flop yet again, and I had an epiphany. For once, rather than just being frustrated, I actually looked at the piece that keeps falling down. And when I looked, I realized something important. I realized why this piece keeps falling down.

It's much, much shorter than the rest of my hair.

I held that chunk of short hair in my hand, puzzled, and then all the lights began to dawn.

The rest of my hair is down to the middle of my back. This is only six or eight inches long. This is new hair, growing in.

In the months after Michael died, I lost a lot of hair. So did our daughters, my mom and my sister. The intense emotional stress and shock of his suicide caused all of us to lose hair. Stress will do that.

This falling-down hair, that has annoyed me so much, is actually a sign of life.

It's a sign of healing- of restoration.

This is my hair, slowly coming back- a quiet, hidden proof that in spite of all the trauma, I am still here, still alive.

My messy hair now makes me smile tenderly, as I gently tuck it back into my braid.

It's a symbol of hope.