evidence of healing (sols)

{Evidence of Healing}

Hannah put her hair in lots of minibraids last night. "It's not going to stay like this for picture day, I just want to get the waves," she said when Andy gave her the look dads perfect when they have middle school daughters.

She selected her favorite shirt and chose the perfect shoes. She rolled her eyes when Andy asked why the shoes matter when the pictures are only of her head. 

"Wake me up a little early," she said when we hugged her good night. She snorted a laugh when Andy mentioned she would be early if she just got up the first time, instead of the seventy-first time we asked.

We realize it's happening -- this whole becoming a teenager thing -- and yet, we are trying to ignore it. Maybe if we pretend she's still little, we can stop the inevitable? (Those of you who have walked this path before, it's okay not to tell me. We are enjoying our blissful ignorance.)

Then today she wakes up and spends too-long in front of the mirror. 

Meanwhile, I weave a thick braid along the front of Stephanie's hairline, flat iron the rest of it, and spritz on some shine spray. "I love it!" Stephanie smiles in the mirror.

Hannah is still in the other bathroom, in front of the mirror. 

I'm on my way out the door, and she's finally out from the mirror. "Have a great day, Mom!" she skip-steps over to hug me.

Her hair is in a ponytail. "Did you remember it's picture day?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah. But I forgot when I brush my hair after braids it gets poofy. So I put it in a ponytail instead."

"Do you want me to help you?"

"No, that's okay. I like my hair this way."

Stephanie raises an eyebrow. "Mom's good at fixing hair," she says. I fire a look at Stephanie, a look that says, be nice.

Hannah pours cereal into her bowl. "I know, but I like my hair this way. I was thinking about doing it all fancy, but it didn't work out. Now I'll just be the same way I always am. That's fine too."

I smile. All these years we've waited for her to become real, to become sure of herself, to not let pleasing others be her first priority. And here we are on picture day, her hair in a ponytail, and instead of a meltdown, we get confidence.

I hug her again, a little tighter and blink back tears. "You okay, Mom?" she asks.

I'm more than okay. I tuck a loose strand behind her ear. "You're beautiful," I say.

"Wait 'til I smile," she says.

It is evidence of healing. Her confidence and strength and moxie are her beauty. (Not to mention the pretty face and smile.)

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