As I colored my hair this morning, I reflected back, counting how many years I had stood in front of a mirror every month, separating and filling the roots with color to take my naturally dishwater blonde hair to something I found more palatable. I realized it has been more than 40 years since that first time I put “Sun In” in my hair, my then pretty color turning to an awful orange. Thankfully, my Mom was there for me as she always was, this time taking me to an expensive stylist in Syracuse, 45 minutes away from our small town, and paying their fancy salon prices to have it corrected. Every few weeks she would take me back until they finally had my long strands worked back to their natural color.

It wasn’t too many months later that I stood before my mother with orange hair again, I think 17 at the time, sheepishly saying, “Can you believe I made the same mistake again?”

All of those Saturdays she’d spent taking me to Syracuse and patiently waiting while they worked on the hair I’d ruined. All that money. And I’d gone and done it again. I was so ashamed, after all she had done to help me the first time, and I stood waiting for a well deserved, angry reaction from her. But she didn’t get angry. I think we were more alike than I realized, and she understood my desire to be blonde and feel beautiful. She was always understanding with me.

She had watched how they colored my roots all those months in the fancy salon. Now, she helped me to find a pretty shade of blonde in a box, and she patiently stood over me as I sat in a kitchen chair, separating the roots and filling them with a pretty blonde color. She did that for me every month until I went off to college and had to do it myself.

I can still feel myself in that small kitchen, the sweet wood smell of the table and chairs she had bought second hand and labored over to refinish. I can hear the familiar squeak of the chair as I shift while she works her magic. Mom was always there for me. All the seemingly little things that to a Mom are just “what we do” add up to loving memories that can feed your soul throughout your life. Even at nearly 60 years old, those memories warm my heart, filling it with my Mother’s love. I love you Mom.