She saved my hair

So, she saved my hair. Not just any hair, my two glorious braids. The braids that I wore daily for most of my childhood. The braids that family and schoolmates first think of because wearing my hair down was never an option.

Lost was the thought of my old hairstyle until my dad delivered the “special” package. Then, there they were, saved after all these years. My natural chestnut brown hair, shiny and healthy, in all of its preteen glory. The plastic hair elastics still holding tight after 40 years.

I remember the day like yesterday. The day family members were instructed to call me “Pam” not “Pamy”. The day my girlish braids were replaced with the ever so chic Dorothy Hamill cut. I felt proud that day. Proud to feel like I’d shed some of my baby image. So perhaps that’s why my mom (who else?!) wrapped it in plastic, dated the precious family treasure, and added it with the rest of the hair in her collection.

My mom could have been an archivist. She carefully labelled and stored just about every piece of family memorabilia you could imagine. I’m not sure how she imagined unveiling these items later in life. Would there have been some grand presentation? Some satisfaction as a mother for having kept such treasures?

I’ll never know, because I lost my mom years ago. She kept so many treasures that deciding what to keep has become an overwhelming responsibility. She has to be giggling from above watching me squirm with the decisions. Seriously mom, what am I supposed to do with these braids now? Do I pass them on to my kids? What will they do with my old hair? Do I donate 45-year-old locks? Throw them out? There’s guilt everywhere I turn.

So, I’m not sure what to do with these foot-long braids. I’m leaning towards tossing the label and keeping the hair. I get a bit of a smile thinking about my daughter, 40 years from now, stumbling upon two braids without any explanation. They’re a bit creepy without any frame of reference. Keeping them also saves my DNA, giving future generations the opportunity to clone me. At least that’s what a friend suggested. Seems like I should at least leave that door open.

Here’s looking at you Ma … always giving me something to think about.