I was thinking last night on how I learned about being a woman. My mother was born in 1941. She was wedged between two different generations. I used to watch her with great interest, especially on Sundays when she would set her hair. She was one of the last beehive holdouts. While the 70s switched to harshly feathered hair, my mom was still rolling and setting her hair on Sundays. The process was exhausting. First, she had to wash inordinate amounts of white rain out. Then she would put her hair in roller that looked like torture devices held together with bobby pins. When her hair finally dried overnight, there was the teasing, the spraying. I'm quite sure a section of the ozone layer was taken out with her signature 'do. Finally was the reteasing and daily sleep positioning to retain its glory. They say the higher the hair the closer to God. She clearly was a saint. Finally, the hair was topped of by her kerchiefs, accessorized with her pal mall gold 100s, and finished with a touch too dark foundation.
My mother taught me what it was to be a woman. At all times, you do you, be yourself, if you like something, stick to it.