Laugh-Out-Loud Wisdom
The following story happened many years ago and was one of those nudges toward self-acceptance, a concept that was resolutely in my head but hadn’t yet made its way to my heart. I’ve retold this hilarious story many times and thought of it as simply funny and entertaining, even though I was the butt of the joke. However, its meaning has evolved, and it has become a parable about loving my imperfect self, which has only become even more imperfect as my health deteriorates. Humor coaxes our hidden vulnerabilities into the open, allowing us to observe them in the soft light of recognition without the glare of accusation and shame. Often, we don’t see events precisely as they happened or fully understand them as they’re happening; instead, we see them through the smudged lens of our experiences and culture. It’s often only in retrospect that we gain insight into the hidden lesson offered. Taken together, our recollections testify to what we value, what we struggle with, and how we cope with adversity.
It was the afternoon of Maw-Maw Night, the night once a month when my large extended family got together at my aunt and uncle’s house to have dinner with my grandmother. I raced home from work so I could shower and change. As I dried my hair, I attempted to create a salon-like look at home. With my round brush in one hand and my hairdryer in another, I carefully rolled the first section of my hair onto the brush. “I know I can do this,” I thought. “I’ve seen Najah, my hairstylist, do it a thousand times. After a few seconds, I tugged at the brush, but it wouldn’t budge. The brush was stuck - up to my scalp. I stopped singing along with Billy Joel to give this pending disaster my full attention. I tugged a little harder, but no luck. I was desperate. Maw-Maw night was just two hours away, and my handsome new husband would be home soon. I did what any self-respecting woman would do in such a beauty emergency - I called my sister, Suzanne, and begged for help. She gave a knowing laugh because few women haven’t had a hair emergency.
After the cackling, hooting, and screeching subsided, Suzanne tried to unroll the brush. Needless to say, she was not successful. She decided to try a few strands at a time. All this did was produce a wad of hair on the side of my head that resembled brown cotton candy. I knew then that there was only one thing to do - call Najah and confess my total incompetence as a self-stylist and beg for his help. As I hung up the phone, my sister looked at me and said dryly, “You have to cover that thing before we head downtown in rush-hour traffic.” I grabbed a large silk scarf, wrapped it around my unfortunate hairdo, and put on my sunglasses. I looked like Audrey Hepburn except for the pale pink handle that jutted out from under the scarf. We jumped into my little red Toyota Corolla and made our way to the salon. I drove straight-faced as if everything was normal, while my sister reported the pointing and staring of strangers. We finally made it. I swerved into the parking lot and screeched into a spot with the urgency of a detective chasing a suspect.
My tall, dark stylist greeted us at the door. Always the steward of style, he wore perfectly tailored clothes and a practiced, professional expression, although the tears in his eyes revealed a crack in his composure. As soon as I looked at him, I got the giggles, and we both collapsed into peals of laughter, the undignified snorty kind of laughter. After we composed ourselves, I untied the scarf to expose my handiwork. A half hour and a bottle of conditioner later, I was free of the pink porcupine, and the cotton candy blob was gone, but my hair was stuck to my head in a greasy mess.
Time was ticking, and Najah had other customers, so that he couldn’t wash and style my hair. I would have to go home and fix it myself. My husband would see his new bride in a less-than-glamorous state. This weighed heavily on my perfectionistic ego. I nervously made my way up the stairs and into the arms of my husband, and all he said, admittedly with a twinkle in his eyes, was, “Let’s go.” We were already late for dinner, so there was no time to redo my hair. I boldly walked down the stairs, got in the car, and went to Maw-Maw night, greasy hair and all. I walked into my aunt’s house and told the whole hilarious story. We all had a good laugh, and I was reminded that I am loved, even despite — and because of — my less-than-perfect self.
We all have moments when we doubt our worth or focus on our flaws or failings. The nagging feeling of “I am not enough because I can no longer (fill in the blank)” sometimes creeps in, and I focus on how to make up for not being able to do something or be something. I hustle for approval and mistake it for love. But these curated remnants of my youth remind me to let go of striving for perfection and what is supposed to be and embrace the unpredictable, less-than-perfect life of living with chronic illness. I am enough.
