My hair. It has started to come out. In the shower this morning I noticed. Not a lot but a enough to get my attention. My scalp is a bit sore (kinda like when your hair hurts from wearing a cap, if you know what I mean). Or maybe you don't. No bother.
I've never been a vain person. Sure you always want to put your best foot forward as they say, but I've certainly not spent a great deal of time (or stress) over it. Comfort can be fashionable is my motto. But I do like my hair. I always get compliments over the color (I've never altered the color of my hair unless you count the endless bottles of "Sun In" during high school) and or the curl – all natural. I like to think I get my hair from my mom. And I thanked her every time someone took notice.
My mom. She was unique. From her god-given name, Nela. To her nickname given by our cousins, Aunt Law. She was my protector, my coach, and my partner. We grew up together, as she was just shy of 18 years my senior. We played endless softball together. First as coach / player. And then as teammates on numerous women's softball teams. She played a mean second base. We bowled together - earning a spot at the Iowa State Mother-Daughter tournament one year.
As my hair falls out, I'm reminded of her. What she gave me. What she took from me. What she left me with.