Mom

When I was young, my Mom used to cut my hair. And I didn’t understand at the time. I didn’t really appreciate it. I was only 9. I wanted to go to the barber like all my friends and get lined up.

My Mom would finish all her tasks for the day and then call me upstairs to get my haircut before we went to bed. She didn’t have to cut my hair by any means. It wasn’t an economical reason. She could have easily took me to the barber.

But she wanted to do it. So I’d sit on a stool in our bathroom and she’d bust out these old raggedy clippers she owned. She’d have to apply oil to them because all my nappy hair had taken its toll on the clippers and the motor wouldn’t work properly at first. Haha.

And now, I just remember her putting so much effort into every single detail of my head. I remember how focused her eyes were. She’d squint and tilt my head. She’d use her hands to estimate the length of my hair. Then she’d make her adjustments, stand back, and do it all again. She painstakingly hunched over me for an hour. Then she’d wash my hair and send me off to bed.

She did that for me for years. Every month. And every time, she cared just as much as the time before.

And I’ll always be thankful to her for the little things like that. I just wish I appreciated it more at the time. As I’ve gotten older and seen the world and the people in it, one thing remains constant…nothing compares to the love she’s given me.