only mamas
Many years ago, I went home with matted hair, and it wasn’t the first time. I had been living a horrible life and had flown home for some respite. I have a bunch of thick, long hair that requires high maintenance. Needless to say, I wasn’t maintaining it. My mother later told me that it hurt her to see me like that.
Seems that I have a habit of letting my hair go when I’m depressed. Outsiders can’t tell. But they aren’t trying to pull a comb through my tangles. All they see is a ponytail bun.

When my mom came down for the holidays last year, about a month after Love had died, she knew what she had to do. I hadn’t worked in two months — I couldn’t go back. And with the new year, I was to start a new, interim job, and I could barely manage my life. So, my mom sat down on her last vacation day, and did my hair. It took several hours. And I kept it like that for at least two months. It was one of the only ways I could hold myself together.
I quit that job in April. But I was doing better with myself by then.
My mom came back down in May, knowing that I still wasn’t feeling well. She hears it in my conversations and hates how I talk about not caring about anything. She did my hair again. I started yet another job; and I kept my hair in place for a month. Having my hair done represents one less thing that I have to think about in a 24 hour period. It makes getting out of bed not as difficult. I don’t feel beautiful, but I don’t feel as ugly either.
I’ve never told my mom about me and Love, meaning, what He was/is to me. But I think she knew/knows, at least by my hair.
