When I was Eleven

This is a piece that I began writing in a workshop recently. The prompt from the facilitator was, "When I was eleven..."

It was a bright... summer day I think. I was at the neighborhood barber shop with my dad and brother on their monthly visit to see Pat the barber in a little place that used to be on the back side of what was the old Hollywood Fred Meyers on 42nd and Sandy. The one with the rooftop parking lot for the few of you who actually lived in Portland twenty years ago. The one where I rode the escalator all the way down two floors and there in a sea of greedy Christmas shoppers, spotted in the very back of a bottom shelf, one last remaining cabbage patch kid when they were all the rage. I snatched her up and little Miss Dot Noel went home with me that day, my favorite toy and best friend for years to come. In fact, she an I didn't part ways until too many years before I found myself sitting around the corner in the barber shop at eleven watching my dad and brother get their sideburns trimmed and their necklines de-fuzzed. It was the summer before fifth grade and I was tall and gangly with long muscular legs and big feet that I'm sure swung back and forth non-stop over the edge of the chair as I waited restlessly to get out of that place for boys and men and back out into the world where I could run and jump and be free. I was a swimmer then, a state champion, several first place trophies on the bookshelf in my bedroom, able to swim two lengths of the pool in under thirty seconds. I was happy and confident and although didn't think a lot about my looks or how I appeared to others then, I can recall that I felt strong and confident, inside and out. As I sat in the window waiting, impatiently I'm sure, something happened that I can still remember as if it were only a few weeks ago; I was looking outside watching the traffic flow and people walk by and a raven haired woman in her twenties stopped and stood on the sidewalk outside of the shop. She had  what I thought was the coolest haircut I had ever seen; a pixie cut. And I knew, it was for me. "Look, look, look!" I shouted to anyone who would listen and I proceeded to tell my dad I wanted Pat to cut my hair just like hers. Now, Pat didn't normally cut women's hair, and I had never had short hair before but I was convinced I needed my hair to just look just like hers. After a round of interrogation from my father, I, after years of going to see Pat, for the first time in short my life, sat my long, boyish looking young body down in his chair. I can't really quite remember my mom's reaction when we got home that day, although I'm sure shock registered quite high on the list, but when all was said and done, I was pleased. And I have to say, I looked damn cute. Until about nine months later that is.

I was just going to a new school for fifth grade so I could participate in their arts magnet program and for the first time in my life, I got a brand new outfit to wear on the first day; a red shirt and a skirt with red roses on it. Together with my pixie haircut and new clothes, I was convinced I was the finest thing Buckman Elementary School had likely ever seen. As the year went on the cut grew old and after six months or so, I was ready to grow my hair back out. And the funniest thing started to happen; as the weeks and months passed, instead of the fine, smooth chocolaty brown hair that was cut off growing back in, a new tangly mass of curly, surly hair began to grow in. Puberty was on the cusp and it seemed all of a sudden, as my hips grew and my swimming time got that much harder to cut, my hair began to jet out in funny directions, in curls at my temples, my brother calling me 'Wings.' I was terribly disturbed by all of this and didn't know what to do with it or how to tame it or what was happening. My mom assured me, the same had happened her when she was around the age of eleven too and that it would all be okay. Looking up at her head of frizzy, greying locks I was, as you can imagine, less than comforted.

By my high school years my body had filled in and I had quit swimming, my hair having turned into a full fledged curls although most days I tried my best to blow dry the waves out. In the rain hairs would pop up and curl out here and there and it seems that ever since that fateful age of eleven, I have been in an endless battle with my hair to tame its wild ways. Over the years, I've perfected the art of straightening it, a combination of blow dryer with a special attachment, large round metal brush, and flat iron usually do the trick. Oh, and a shit load of expensive relaxing product. Even as I have on occasion felt inclined to work with the curl instead of fight it, I still am forced to used the same shit load of product of a different variety and a blow dryer complete with a giant diffuser on the end in order to try to keep my curls looking more like Shirley temple and less like Don King. In 2003 I cut my hair short again for the first time since eleven and in recent years I have kept it shorter than ever before in my life. After having to get up at 3am for a few years working for Starbucks, short hair that required just a little gel, and for the first time in my life, the ability to *air dry* my hair and not look like a chia pet, was thrilling. In my new job I have to wear a hat so I have gotten even lazier, not even washing or combing my hair some mornings. It seems funny to me now that I used to spend about forty five minutes on my hair every morning... and now usually spend less than five.

Recently I have been getting tired of my short hair and decided to grow out the top a little bit. I have been shocked by the amount of gray that I have, or white rather, and also surprised by the emotions that have come with seeing my curl come back as my hair grows. My mom had curly hair just like my own, and I have found myself quite taken aback in several moments lately. Looking in the mirror seeing curly gray hair surrounding my face, I see her staring back at me... and I feel all at once, happy and proud to look like her... and incredibly sad all the same. Although her nose was slimmer than mine, we looked eerily similar she and I. I think the older I get and the grayer I get, the more I will see her when I look at myself in the mirror. I have occasionally wondered at times if me keeping my hair either straightened or quite short in the years since she died has been one more way of me avoiding the subject of her in my brain. Avoiding thoughts that serve as a reminder of what I had and what I lost... perhaps better yet, a reminder of what she lost.

Today I straightened what little length of hair I currently have, a swoop of bangs hanging over my forehead and covering my right eyebrow. In this swoop, streaks of white can be seen. Growing up I always felt so embarassed of my mom's gray hair, of what I thought were her dorky clothes. I always wanted a mom who was chic and trendy and shopped with me at the GAP instead I had one with frizzy gray hair who wore tee shirts that looked like a crossword puzzle, green and purple sweatshirts that said things like, "Practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty," and mom jeans. It was all terribly tragic at eleven, and twelve... and twenty for that matter. It is only now in the graying of my own hair, that I have found the respect for her ability to say fuck you society's notion of what makes a woman beautiful and sport her salt and peppered head with pride. I imagine my brother and I gave her quite a few if not most of those gray and white hairs. These days I blame my job for all of mine, although I'm sure the stress and anxiety that have ruled my insides since the day I lost her seven years ago are equally responsible as well. To me, these white hairs laying  gently across my forehead are not only a sign of my life's struggles but more importantly a sign of my survival. And perhaps most of all, they are a reminder of kin. In this moment I feel proud of my gray hairs and proud that I lived to tell the story of how they and my curls came to be after so many years of my adult life thus far wanting desperately to either be doped up and locked away or wanting to just give up on life and quit completely.

Someone told me that I am beautiful yesterday. And my immediate reaction of course, was to argue with her. I felt like I did quite well in this task, lamenting all the things that are wrong with the way I look. I can't sadly, remember too many moments since I cut my hair at eleven and stood waiting for the school bus in my new red outfit confident in my appearance, that I have felt beautiful or even remotely pretty at all. And isn't that shame; I wouldn't ever wish that on another person and I find myself wondering why has it always been okay for me? So I'm not perfect and my hair has a mind of it's own, my skin is sometimes bumpier than I would like, and my thighs a little fat for their own good. Who ever said that there's not beauty and wisdom to be found in learning to appreciate imperfection. For a sunny Monday reflection, may we all look at ourselves in the mirror and see at least one something to be proud of, despite some the flaws we or the world may choose to find there. May we take pride in the parts of ourselves that tell a story, our story, and may learn to love and appreciate them despite what the rest of the world may think. For all of the gray hairs and ill-behaved eyebrows, for all of the big butts and the bad skin and the round bellies and short legs and jiggly thighs; for whatever parts of ourselves we may have been criticized about or have loathed ourselves for, may we try to remember as we are able, the history and people of which these traits came and may we in their imperfection, find a unique beauty all our own.

Namaste.