It Isn't Messy, It's Celebrating

“My hair isn’t messy; it’s celebrating”… that’s what I said to my aunt who was visiting this past weekend. She hadn’t seen me since my hair grew back and before she commented on the gray or that it was windblown or suggest I “style” it, I beat her to it.  Instead, she loved the “celebrating” comment and only wanted to see how long it had gotten and how soft it felt.

Since my hair began to grow back, only one person has told me that my “messy hair” didn’t make a good impression and that maybe I should do something with it if I wanted to meet a guy, I still get a lot of, “Have you thought of cutting it?” Or “You should style it.” Or “Why don’t you use a flat iron?” these suggestions may not be negative but they all still say, “You would look better if…” which also means, “In my opinion you don’t look your best.”

I’m not bitching here. I’m bringing this up because I DO feel I look my best. I think looking my best happens when I’m feeling my best. I meant what I said to my aunt, my hair is celebrating. And, I’m encouraging it.

When my hair fell out I was only 26 years old. All of it fell out in a matter of weeks. I didn’t know why it was falling out either. Was it a serious health problem, a side effect of some medication, was it stress? I suffered through a few painful experimental treatments and several tests and procedures before those questions were answered. Then I had to deal with the fact that it might never grow back anyway.

After a woman spends thirteen years of her life having to wear wigs and dealing with all that that entails, trust me, she can deal with comments about messy or un-styled hair.

Here’s the truth… I don’t cut my hair because I‘m not sure how long it’ll stay with me. I don’t dye the gray because gray doesn’t bother me. I’m 42 years old and if some gray is the only tip off to my actual age, then I can’t complain. I don’t “style” my hair because it won’t hold a “style” since it still falls out a great deal. I don’t mind when it’s windblown because it means I didn’t have to worry about my wig blowing off instead.

When I look in the mirror I don’t see an un-styled do, gray hairs or messy waves. I see my face; my eyes, my nose, my smile. I see my body working correctly. I see less tension in my neck and shoulders since I’m no longer paranoid about keeping my wig on straight. I see that I’m free to go out whatever the weather. I can go swimming in the summer. Have a snowball fight in the winter. Go on roller coasters and into haunted houses. And, let a guy romantically run his hand through my hair. 

Outside of losing a loved one, losing my hair was the most difficult thing I've ever had to endure. I learned the hard way who was there for me and who wasn’t. I learned what I wore and who I impressed took a backseat to who I was and who I let into my life and that how I felt about myself was more important than how others felt about me. Instead of losing my sense of self I found MYSELF. Instead of fear and weakness I found inner strength.

Think about it, men who often have no problem picking their noses, scratching their crotches or passing gas in front of others can't handle losing their hair. The things some of them do in order to cover up their hair loss and I’m going to worry about my hair being messy? That’s why I’ve made a deal with my hair… the day I begin to contemplate a comb-over is the day I will stop taking my own advice. But, until then, my hair is free to celebrate as she wishes.

William's Recipe

Coquito for those of you who don’t know is an eggnog drink made with coconut. It’s a traditional Christmas drink. The basic ingredients are eggs, coconut and rum. How much of each can vary, then there is what type of rum to use and whether to use real coconut or cream of coconut.

I have a Coquito recipe that I take a lot of pride in making. It was handed down to me by my grandmother’s cousin, William just before he died of cancer. My grandmother and I were visiting him and while she was making him something to eat he and I sat talking. We were talking about when he was young and the trouble he, his sister and my grandmother would get into. I don’t remember how the subject of his Coquito recipe came up but it did. I told him I wished I knew how to make it. He told my grandmother to get him a paper and pen. He then handed them to me and said, “Here, write this down.” He didn’t just give me the recipe but told me why and how he decided to put in each ingredient. The conversation then went from his simple recipe to other family traditions and then to past holidays that he and my grandmother remembered. It was a really special afternoon for me. I was barely into my 20’s when William gave me his recipe and for a couple of years after he passed I kept it in one of my journals.

When I moved into my own place I thought it might be nice to make it even though I’m not much of a “kitchen” person. I don’t enjoy cooking or baking. If there was a way to nourish myself without having to actually prepare food or eat I’d be the first in line. I figured if it sucked no one would know because I was alone in the house. To my own surprise the Coquito turned out to be delicious. And, now it’s one of the few things I like to make. I make it every year and though I’ve been offered money for it, I only ever give it as a gift. It’s a way of me passing on the love and laughter of that day.

Unfortunately I trusted someone who didn’t understand that it wasn’t just a drink but something special. An old friend was planning a Christmas gathering at his place and wanted me to give him my recipe. He said he’d looked up different recipes but hadn’t come across anything like mine. He knew I didn’t share it but he figured by asking really nicely and by promising not to give the recipe out to anyone else that maybe I would give it to him. I told him that I’d think about it. About a week later he called again. I gave in and to my regret, recited the recipe over the phone.

My “friend” then took William’s recipe and added a different type of rum to it. He didn’t take out the original rum; he simply added his rum to the rest of the ingredients. He said the addition made the recipe HIS. And, since he hadn’t told anyone that the original recipe came from me “technically” he didn’t break his promise either when he eventually shared the recipe. Adding insult to injury he insisted that he improved the recipe. He said that it was good before but with his changes it was “better”. To prove his point he gloated about all the compliments he’d received. I felt betrayed. He took compliments and credit for something that wasn’t his. It wasn’t an ego thing on my part. I felt good about my Coquito not only because it tasted good but because I was sharing part of my family story. It may be my Coquito to those who know me but I always give credit to William. I don’t know, maybe I am being too sensitive. Honestly, since I don’t work much in the kitchen maybe adding or subtracting one ingredient really does make it an entirely new thing. I have shared the recipe with two more people since then. But I’ve decided that from this Christmas forward I will no longer pass on William’s recipe. I’d rather share the Coquito I make instead. My Coquito comes with more than ingredients. It has a story, a history. It’s the story of a day I spent with my family. It’s a story of tradition, of culture and of respect for what we inherit. And, although I add my own love and friendship to the recipe before it's shared, it still belongs to William.