Today’s column is going to be a little different from the ones I’ve written since the beginning of COVID-19 and, lately, the horrific war in Ukraine. My words are going to be trivial to some, while it will hit home with others.
It’s about my hair. I know it’s such a mundane subject in today’s world, but this column is about being a grandmother, and, believe it or not, my hair plays a role.
I am a natural redhead, and, when you’re a redhead, it becomes part of your personality – part of who you are. In many instances, it can toughen you up as a person because you find yourself being teased or bullied, simply because you’re a redhead. Add my million freckles to the mix, and it’s guaranteed that thoughtless people will poke fun at you. Or you’ll find people who absolutely love red hair – like my husband – and they make up for the mean ones.
In my case, the bullies toughened me. I grew up in a home where I was told daily that I was beautiful. And I believed it. Still do. Nobody had the power then or now to take me down. I loved the color of my hair (a perfect match to my beloved father’s and now my granddaughter’s), and the freckles just came with the territory.
So giving it up has been seriously hard for me, but that’s what I’m doing. I’m letting the white take over.