As I walked into the salon for a haircut, a petite woman named Layla introduced herself. She explained that my previous stylist had moved on, and she was now taking over the client list. Almost immediately, I felt drawn to Layla; her quiet elegance was captivating.
When she inquired about my profession, I shared that I was a writer and a mother. I mentioned my blog, “Mom Babble,” which sparked her interest.
“It’s a blog for mothers?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s how people describe it.”
“I would like to share about my mother,” she said with a soft smile.
And so she did. Layla spoke of a woman whose laughter could turn heads in the grocery store, who slept with her hand tucked under her chin, and walked gracefully like a dancer. She described her mother as a keeper of secrets, a source of comfort, and a person who never judged. “My mother is my best friend,” she added wistfully.
Curious, I asked if she would be spending Thanksgiving with her mom. Layla paused, laying down her scissors. “My mother passed away 17 years ago. But it feels like just yesterday.”
I noticed a shadow of sorrow in her warm brown eyes. She shook her head, as if to clear a memory, and resumed cutting my hair in silence. After a moment, she sighed. “I don’t celebrate this holiday anymore; it only reminds me of my lost childhood. It’s gone, along with my mother.”
In that moment, I understood deeply. I had just returned from a weekend with my best friend, Sarah, who shares not only my laugh but also my love for Southern cuisine and sugary lattes. When I’m with her, I feel like a child again. Our bond spans my entire life—from burp cloths to college plans, and even the delivery of my son. My mother is not just my best friend; she embodies my childhood.
Edna St. Vincent Millay penned, “Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.” Perhaps that holds a grain of truth. This kingdom lives on through our parents, and when they’re gone, childhood becomes a mere memory—a story told to our own children, a book cherished for its narrative but never relived.
I sat in that salon chair, yearning to call my mom, but instead, I remained in the heavy silence that followed our conversation. I admired my freshly cut hair, feeling a mix of emotions. “It’s a fantastic haircut. I love it,” I managed to say, as Layla handed me the mirror, pride shining through her smile.
As I walked to the checkout, I wanted to express my gratitude, but words felt insufficient. Instead, I waved goodbye, my heart full of appreciation. Layla was already welcoming her next client as I stepped outside.
Once in my car, I buckled up and snapped a selfie of my new look. I added the photo to a text message and began scrolling through my contacts to find my mom. I hesitated and ultimately deleted the message. Instead, I activated Siri with a shaky voice and said, “Call Mom.”
It took only two rings for her familiar voice to fill the line.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom?” My voice quivered, betraying my emotions.
“I just wanted to say I love you, Mom.”
Reflecting on this experience, I realized that sometimes a heartfelt call carries more weight than a simple text. If you’re navigating the complexities of motherhood and looking for more support, consider visiting CDC’s pregnancy resources or checking out this informative site for insights on home insemination. And for those exploring parenthood, BabyMaker offers excellent tools to help you on your journey.
Summary:
In a heartfelt encounter at a salon, the author reflects on the loss of Layla’s mother while contemplating her own relationship with her mom. The piece captures the essence of motherhood and the importance of connections, emphasizing that sometimes, a phone call can express deeper feelings than a text. It also provides resources for those navigating parenthood and home insemination.