Black Haired Beauty

Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I brushed my long locks. It felt good to run a brush through my hair. Would have felt even better for someone else to have brushed my hair. But it’s just me so I’ve gotta take what I can get.

I just stared at myself. As I brushed my silky, long, black hair I noticed if I brushed it down the side covering my ear and the side of my face, I could see the youthful side of me. The young girl I once was. Dark hair. Playful eyes. Smirk.

With the same brush, like a painter, if I brushed my hair back, I could see the wise owl had crowned me. Or pooped on the corners of my head as they are grey and almost white. It hides when I brush my hair down. When my hair is back, I see the soon to be 45 year old who is crinkle eyed, nose scruntched up, trying to keep her glasses on. Still with a smirk.

Both these faces reflecting back on me this evening were me. Both hit me how beautiful they were. How striking my hair was with the dark, ebony, gloss. With the light hitting just so. And the white, wise streak crowning me with wisdom I have won over these past several years of fighting battles and winning under dire circumstances.

One mirror, two images. Beauty captured in the brushing and care I rarely take for myself. The rare appreciation I take to wonder at the beauty I have within me. I know that I am an okay looking person. But looking at me with my hair, I am absolutely beautiful. I can say that. Sharing that moment was beautiful.

I’m alone. Nobody is home but the dogs of course. Just me. The brush. The mirror. My hair. I’m going to make this a thing. Brushing my hair and appreciating it. Who knows how long it will last. It’s a beautiful thing.

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