“What did you do to your hair?” my mother said.
I blinked at the remark.. I wasn’t prone to mirror reflection, growing up matter-of-fact about my appearance. Just like her, my model.
We’d vacationed in California, and I had enjoyed my week in the sun, thriving.
As strawberries do.
My skin gets red as theirs, but apparently my hair blanches, a revelation. I had noticed my red skin: it hurt, but my sun-bleached hair did not.
When I was a child, my hair was red, and I received taunts regarding the distinctive hue. That’s when my hair hurt.
Puberty changed the color to strawberry blonde, which brought with it new interest. California residence edged my hair further to movie star status.
Chemo didn’t change the color or texture at all, but California sunshine does. I am glad that God’s chemical reaction is more powerful than man’s.
I am a California blonde. What are you?
Red! No question. I grew up hating my hair. Kid’s found it something to poke fun at while every adult seemed to love it. I couldn’t quite figure that imbalance out. I learned to like and appreciate it’s uniquness as an adult.
“Better dead than red!” What a ridiculous taunt! My mother warned me that when I reddened at the kids’ inane remarks, that it egged them on – but with white as snow skin and my heart on my sleeve for all to see…I am what I am.
And you are, too – one of God’s best.