July 2, 2025
This first week of July is usually a very melancholy
one for me. Yesterday was Canada Day and had also been my brother’s birthday.
My senior by ten years, Charles used to tell me, when I was about five or so,
that the reason for the parade in the city on July first was in honor of his
birthday. Yesterday, he would have turned eighty-one.
Yes, I was always a gullible person. And yes, those
who know me best are likely now mumbling, “was?”
The fifth of July had been my mother’s birthday. And
then more than a full year after her passing, it became the birthday of my
second son and middle child. Those of you familiar with my essays know that
Anthony passed away in 2006 at the too-young age of twenty-nine.
So beginning yesterday and likely for the duration of
this week, I’m emotionally iffy, and will probably be more than a little prone
to becoming weepy….and that is okay.
The ubiquitous
“they” used to tell me to not be so emotional; to grow a thicker skin. But I’m
going to be 71 this month. And I have come to the conclusion that the adult
thing to do is to acknowledge one’s nature and to accept oneself for the person
one is, warts and all. Where adjustments are necessary, they should be made. I
have done so, and successfully, I might add. My first adjustment was to tell
myself I need not give so much weight to the opinions of the “they” of this
world, ubiquitous or otherwise.
My second and kinder-to-me adjustment has been to
allow myself to occasionally occupy the pity pot—in privacy, of course—and then
to flush it when I am done.
I did a thing, on Monday. Y’all have heard of “covid
hair”? Well, that was what I had. Until yesterday. I’ve been thinking about getting my hair cut
for some time. My usual morning routine was just to gather it all up into a
messy bun, secure it with my scrunchie of the day, and leave it at that.
Have I ever mentioned how grateful I am to whoever
came up with that idea, the messy bun? I have no hairstyling talent whatsoever.
None. But thanks to the invention of the messy bun, I’ve been able to master
the gather and the capture via scrunchie of my way-too-long hair.
How long was my hair? Well, one of the other stylists
at the salon yesterday came over and said, “I watched you take your scrunchie
off, and I thought, it’s Rapunzel!”
Yes, some scraggly strands actually reached my elbows.
I had it in mind to maybe just get a little taken off.
Maybe shoulder length, which was my daughter’s suggestion. I know she gave it
because she assumed I loved my scrunchies, when in fact I only needed them.
But my left shoulder has been acting up for a couple
of months now, and there have been days when putting my hair up and into that
scrunchie was a level of painful I really didn’t want.
Also, I realized within the last couple of weeks that
I have a lot of broken ends, split ends, and a kazillion hairs of varying but
short lengths sticking out every-damn-where.
The only way for me to look well combed was to use a
bit of water to slick down those short ones and then apply hairspray.
I want my hair to be healthier and there was only one
course of action for me to take that would help that to happen.
I had to have it all chopped off.
This has turned out to be a huge a change, one that’s
going to take a bit of time to get used to. I don’t believe I have ever had my
hair quite this short.
But the good news—and I am so a fan of good
news—was that yesterday a donation of hair was made by me. About sixteen or so
inches of grey-brown, braided strands are on their way to help make wigs and
hair pieces for cancer patients.
Of course, me being me, I never once thought to take a
picture in commemoration of the moment.
Love,
Morgan
http://bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
