Polly, what a sweet thing to say, but my mother would never have used that term to describe me.
Mom was a strict 'follow the rules' person, and though I was a good child and tried to always do what was right, her 'rules' didn't always fit.
You mention black raspberries and it reminds me: My hair was white as you know and a bit curly so when I gathered berries early one very warm morning Mom told me to hurry and to not get dirty because we were going to town as soon as I returned.
You know how berries stain your fingers, right? And you know if you swipe your sweaty white hair back off your face with berry stained fingers, you might leave berry stains in your hair, right?
I placed the berries on the kitchen counter. I walked to the bathroom to wash my hands. I looked in the mirror. I had a nice swipe of dark reddish black berry juice starting at the top of my head and running down the right side, full hair length. I tried wiping it out with a wet cloth but it only spread it around and made it a bit lighter in places. I could hear my Mom calling to tell me we were leaving.
I took one more look and my hair seemed to match the reddish purple shirt I had on and actually I liked the color very well. I ran my fingers through it and fluffed it out. I liked the look. I might have been about 7.
My mom screeched well. "What will people think?" she screeched when she saw me.
That wasn't the first time she'd screeched those words.
This time I was brutally honest with my answer.
"Mama, I really don't care what people think. I like my purply hair; it matches my shirt and it isn't hurting anybody."
Endearing, maybe to you, my dear Polly, but never to my mother.
Her rules didn't fit me very well. I thought it would be ok because it matched and because streaked hair never hurt anybody, but my mom didn't agree.
So thank you very much for making me smile at yet one more memory.
