My mother will never see my blonde eyebrows. She doesn’t know how happy they made me or that I woke up early on a Saturday morning to go halfway across London and get them done; that I was nervous they would look stupid and would be stuck with thick yellow slices on my face for weeks.
I dyed them on a whim, but they won’t last forever. It seems small and insignificant. Why am I not able to just tell her?
My mother and I have never been close, yet it is a constant that has plagued me for years. It has informed my romantic relationship models, my interactions with other members of my family, and how I perceive and understand the concept of motherhood as a whole.
How can I not be bonded to the person that gave me life? Why can’t I just tell her that I dyed a small patch of hair on my face?
Because the fear of her judgement always outweighs the opportunity for her love. Because it isn’t that simple and I was never just talking about eyebrows. I’m talking about grief, an emotion that we reserve for death, but is actually a tool for processing loss.