Long hair has always been a passion of mine. For seventy-two years, it has been my pride and joy, representing who I am and how beautiful I am. My daughter-in-law Betty strolled in yesterday and disrupted my peaceful moment as I stood before the mirror, delicately combing through the silvery strands. Unlike a pair of shears, her remarks sliced through like butter.
“Long hair at your age makes you appear so pitiful, Mom. CUT IT SHORT and quit being an embarrassment; you’re no longer a young woman.
I could feel the hurtful reverberation of her remark as her tone shifted from respectful to contemptuous. The ebb and flow of Betty’s emotions has always made her an interesting character. She goes from praising me mildly to publicly shaming me in the blink of an eye. I was taken aback by her icy demeanor this time.
The Battle Within
The pain and bewilderment caused by Betty’s critical remarks persisted even after she departed from the room. As I stared at my own mirror, I wondered if maybe she was correct. Did my long hair make me look old and ridiculous? By deceiving whom, exactly? At that moment, though, a burst of rebellion washed over me. How did she think I should look at 72 years old? Even complete strangers have told me how much my hubby loves my hair.
The struggle within persisted. I almost caved and chopped off my hair to appease her criticisms. Nevertheless, a more robust aspect of me adamantly refused to allow her remarks to control my decisions. That was the moment I resolved I would not be swayed by Betty’s passive-aggressive tactics. She would see how ferocious I could be if she chose to play “hot and cold” with me.
As Things Develop
An chance arose a few days down the road. Betty boasted about her young appearance and perfect skin because she had always been self-conscious about her features. I was well-versed in exploiting her vulnerability to impart wisdom to her.
I was irritated as usual because Betty had left her pricey skincare goods in my bathroom. Instead of her bedtime cream, I painstakingly substituted an innocuous-smelling ointment that would leave her skin feeling oily and uncomfortable. Even if it wouldn’t hurt her, it would definitely startle her. A mixture of shame and contentment washed over me as I replaced the container. The point was not retaliation, but rather asserting my independence and establishing limits.
Later that night, Betty entered the kitchen with a look that betrayed both perplexion and annoyance. “Mom, have you ever felt my cream?” I can’t stand the way it makes my skin feel and smell.
I beheld her with naiveté. That one seemed like it would be a hit with you, Betty. Supposedly, it’s quite nutritious. Perhaps not everyone will like it.
Hunching over, she retreated to her chamber without saying a word. Reestablishing some respect for myself was a minor victory. Although it was insignificant, it signaled a change in our relationship.
Returning to My Strength
What followed were distinct days. It looked like Betty was being more cautious around me, and her normally biting remarks were toned down. Maybe she realized I wouldn’t be as easy to get after this.
My hair remained long, flowing down my back like a silver waterfall, and I kept it that way. It served as a constant reminder of my strength and my refusal to be defeated by anyone who dared to undermine me.
I was sitting in the garden one afternoon when my husband came to join me. His fingers caressed my hair as he grinned. “Roselyn, you really rock this style. Stay true to yourself.
He confirmed what I had long suspected, and his words brought comfort to my heart. None of other people’s opinions could determine my value. Feeling lovely and secure in myself is a right I have at any age.
An Alternative Perspective
Although our interactions changed noticeably after the cream incident, Betty and I never revisited the topic. There were still icy patches, but her gaze betrayed a fresh reverence. It was as if she understood that I wasn’t the type to back down from a challenge.
As time passed, I proudly embraced my long hair. I learned the hard way that I should never let other people’s views shape my self-perception, particularly ones as ephemeral as Betty’s. Every one of my silver hairs, wrinkles, and lines was something I had worked for. Their tales of perseverance and fortitude were evidence of a life well-lived.
Ultimately, the outcome was less important than the outcome. The goal was to show Betty that respect is mutual and to reassert my authority. She may have intended to embarrass me, but what she accomplished was to highlight my resilience. And that, I came to understand, was the most important lesson of all.