It's not surprising. Nat and I were known as the "Big Hair" couple at Hiram. There was speculation about our potential offspring even then, wondering if the ensuing hair might just take over the world.
Jack for one has inherited his father's fertile follicles, his fine, preppy-cut baby hair fully changed now into a thick, wiry head of hair with a mind of its own. It takes little to convince the hair on the crown of his head to stand up, and luckily he is patient with my hands that are forever trying to smooth it back down, and push his part off to the side, the way I've loved it since he was 12 months old. Neither he nor his father wear their hair long right now, and I think that's a good thing. It really might take over the world. Or the bathroom drains at least.
Ivy has been growing her hair out, very intentionally, for about forever now. Seriously. She decided she wanted to be like her preschool teacher. Her 3 year old preschool teacher. A full year later and she's got it to her shoulders. She's inherited my hair, wavy but fine, and slow to grow. Poor girl. She's been known to wistfully say how much she really loves haircuts. Sigh. Her impossibly white locks are darkening a little these days but are still a conversation piece. She likes to wear her hair "street urchin style," uncombed and shaggy over her face like a little tow-headed Cousin It. I am forever trying to get her to keep a clip in it.
My hair? While I've been ignoring it, it's been growing, slowly, into an unruly mop. Every now and then I spot a white hair in the crowd, and quickly pluck it out. But even with the white banished, I'm not loving my hair right now. Certain important family members tell me they like my hair long-- but me? By 3pm each day I'm ready for my hair to be pulled back and forgotten. I rue the boredom of it. I think, maybe, I just really love haircuts too.
Hair is kind of a thing, it turns out.
We spend rather an inordinate amount of time on our hair, washing and drying and brushing and styling and cutting, pushing it back from faces, out of our eyes, smoothing wayward locks, twirling it around fingers, admiring and fretting and thinking about it constantly. It seems that, at least in our family, these collections of dead cells are vital to my self image. Not only my hair but the hair of those I love. It is a shiny, changeable, high-maintenance reflection of my worth, and its on my mind, consciously or not, every day.
But more so this week. Because it's getting on near February and that means March is near. St Patrick's Day, of course. But St. Baldrick's Day, too. Never heard of St. Baldrick's? Neither had I, before last year. Before I learned more about it than I really wanted to.
St. Baldrick's is a charity that raises money for childhood cancer research. Every year around St. Patrick's day, brave and caring people shave their heads, go bald, to raise awareness about childhood cancer and to show solidarity with the children fighting it.
Last year, Rebecca Meyer's sister Caroline shaved her head in honor of her sister. It was this totally amazing, moving event. A whole troupe of 4th and 5th graders shaved their heads, all for one. All for one little spark of a girl. There were smiles and tears and hope in the eyes of the shavees that day.
Rebecca didn't shave her head that day. She still had all of her hair, the effects of chemo only barely thinning her wonderful mess of curls. In the pictures you'd never know she was the girl with brain cancer. Five year old spark of life.
She never lost her hair. She didn't have the time. Beautiful to the last, her dark curls are seared into my memories of her. Wild hair always in motion, like the girl herself.
I can't believe its almost St. Baldrick's time again. I can't believe how time is moving on and how many months it has been since my friend has smoothed her daughter's curls, pushed them out of her face, considered a haircut for her. How it's been even longer since she was able to take hair for granted.
I am thinking about that so hard right now. I am thinking about how struggling to get Ivy to sit still for a French braid last weekend, and I am thinking about my friend and the hair she is not braiding.
Here's the deal. The real reason I am writing tonight. The honest truth. Most days I think much, much more about hair than I think about Rebecca. I'm a "move on" sort of person. When something is uncomfortable, I like to get it over with as soon as possible, and then, just move on. Put it behind me. Go back to seeking comfort and ease, chasing the art of living in the now. Banishing unpleasant thoughts in favor of just about anything else.
Then yesterday in my Facebook feed the St. Baldrick's share photos began to pop up. Reminding me. I am always filled with admiration for people with the nerve to do something like shaving their heads. Last year, a good friend of mine-- who didn't even know the Meyer family! -- joined a St. Baldrick's event and raised money and shaved her head just because she's a totally awesome person. Unafraid and generous to a fault. I see the face of a stranger who is doing this great thing and I think just that-- here is a great, generous person. They are awesome.
But a few photos yesterday were different. They were the faces of two little girls I know. Two 6 year olds. Two of Rebecca's best friends. These are first graders, people. Little tiny girls. Imaginative light-filled creatures who dress as Elsa and dance and wear their long, long hair in braids and pony tails and even "street urchin style" from time to time. On March 15 they will shave their heads in honor of their friend who isn't here anymore.
And what I am feeling is more than admiration.
I am humbled by these children. Awed. They are fearless and generous and they are taking action. They are facing loss head on and doing something about it. They are showing me how its done.
Me, here in my comfortable life, agonizing over whether it's time for a new hairstyle, why Ivy won't keep a clip in, if Jack's hair looks presentable.
I didn't even consider shaving my head.
I didn't even think about it.
And now that I am thinking about it (thinking about it hard) my mind is full of a thousand reasons why I couldn't/shouldn't/can't/won't do it. I won't list those reasons here. Not an original or impressive reason among them. Yet they are enough to keep me from it. Because tonight I am looking in at myself and behind my good intentions I find I am not fearless, nor nearly as generous as I would pretend to be.
In fact, I think I am terribly afraid, and more than a little bit selfish.
There is a lot of hair in my house. And I just want to keep it that way. Stay far far away from an event that will do nothing but make me think of little children dying of cancer. The last thing I want to think about. I want to move on from that, please.
But then, I think of my friend who is not busy taming her daughter's curls tonight. I think of brave little girls who stand with their friend, even beyond death. And I think-- I need to keep thinking about this.
In the meantime, here are the links to Ruth and Elizabeth's fundraising pages. While we think, we can at least give. In memory. In hope.
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