As I stepped into the salon for a haircut, a petite woman with striking features introduced herself. My previous stylist had relocated, she explained. Her name was Elena, and she was now managing Michelle’s client list.
I quickly found myself drawn to Elena. There was a serene beauty about her. When she inquired about my profession, I shared that I was a mother with a passion for writing. I mentioned my blog, which piqued her interest.
“It’s a blog for mothers?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s how people refer to it.”
“I would like to share about my mother,” she replied.
She then spoke of a woman whose laughter could stop traffic at the grocery store, who curled her fingers under her chin while sleeping. This mother walked as gracefully as a dancer, held secrets close, and exuded the warmth of comfort food. She was nonjudgmental, soft-hearted, and deeply spiritual. “My mother is my best friend,” Elena reflected.
Curious, I asked if she planned to see her mom for Thanksgiving. She paused, setting down her scissors.
“My mother passed away 17 years ago. But it feels like yesterday,” she said, sadness clouding her expressive eyes. Shaking her head gently, she resumed cutting my hair in silence, struggling to regain her composure. After a moment, she exhaled.
“I no longer celebrate this holiday. It just reminds me that my childhood is gone. Gone, along with my mother.”
In that moment, I felt a deep connection to her words. I had recently returned from a weekend with my best friend, who shares my laugh, my features, and my love for Southern cooking. When we’re together, I feel like a child again.
Our bond encompasses the entirety of my life: she was present for burp cloths, Easter baskets, stitches, and boyfriends. She witnessed my wedding and was there for the birth of my son. My mother is not just my best friend; she is the keeper of my childhood memories.
Edna St. Vincent Millay once wrote, “Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.” This sentiment resonates, for our parents embody that kingdom. Once they are gone, childhood morphs into a memory—stories we narrate to our own children as they nestle in their car seats, treasures we keep on our shelves, cherished but never relived.
I longed to leap out of that salon chair and call my mother, but instead, I sat in the weighty silence that accompanied the end of my appointment. I watched Elena as she meticulously straightened my hair. There were so many things I wanted to express, but the words eluded me. Finally, I ran my fingers through my freshly cut hair and smiled.
“It’s a wonderful haircut. I love it,” I said.
Elena beamed with pride as she handed me the mirror for my final inspection. She twirled the chair until I set the mirror in my lap and thanked her. After our transaction, I considered hugging her, but she didn’t seem receptive to that. I wanted to express my gratitude, but I feared that those words—like the generous tip I left—would feel insufficient. So, I waved goodbye, my heart full of appreciation. By the time I stepped outside, she was already welcoming her next client.
With her talent, there’s no doubt her business would thrive.
Settling into my car, I fastened my seatbelt and snapped a selfie of my new hairstyle. I sent the photo in a text message, scrolling to find my mother’s contact. I hesitated, then deleted the message. Instead, I activated Siri and said, “Call Mom.”
It rang twice before her familiar voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mom?” My voice trembled, betraying my emotions.
“I just wanted to say I love you, Mom.”
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In summary, the connection with our mothers is profound, serving as a bridge to our childhoods. Even when they are no longer with us, the memories and love they impart continue to shape us, reminding us of the importance of expressing love and gratitude while we can.