When I was a little kid in the ’70’s Title IX was pretty new.  It is a federal civil rights law in the United States which prohibits sex-based discrimination in any school or other educational program that receives federal money.  In other words, it means girls can play sports with boys, or at least they are deemed worthy of having their own teams.  Growing up I was very defensive about my folks, as they were sometimes called my grandparents.  Mama had me at 38, which was a pretty big deal in 1970.  My family life was so close and so happy; I always knew I wanted one of my own.  I never played with dolls or dreamed of a big wedding, but I ALWAYS prayed I’d find my soulmate (yes, I believe in them) and that I would be a mother.  When I was in college at SMU on academic scholarship my father made it clear I was there for an education.  No one ever handed me the memo which said you’re supposed to line up a guy before or during your freshman year in college and marry right after you are graduated.  I have since learned that “our” time is not always God’s time, I would not wind up getting married until I was a late 36, and I had absolutely no clue about the imperativeness of a “biological clock.”  Although there was nothing “wrong” with either of us, I would not wind up getting pregnant until I was 40.  We went through two rounds of in-vitro and God was gracious.  Both of my folks have passed and yet every single day I am gifted with a glimpses of them through our child.  So!  That is a long way to say I grew up on the edge of East Dallas across from a community college surrounded by a field of flowers.  My fair-skinned, redheaded mother burnt her skin to a crisp walking me to swim practice and gymnastics.  I wanted to play soccer but for some reason it never worked out.  Since I already skated competitively and sang in an elite choir, I did not wish to pressure them further.  To this day I view soccer as upper middle class, with parents able to take time off from work to make practices and to watch their childrens’ games.  My second cousins grew up playing soccer in Arizona.  The beautiful little flower girl at our wedding, who was missing her two front teeth, (my third cousin) is now on a soccer scholarship to a college in the South.  I feel incredibly guilty that since kindergarten I have not given our child the opportunity to play soccer.  She is now in the third grade and asked us if she could play.  I think I speak for the loner in both my husband and me when I say we were shocked but supportive.  And so, within the last week, we found ourselves attending her first soccer practice, trying to learn the basics of the game, and making sure our girl had the right gear to play.  Yesterday was her first game and she chose number 11 for her jersey.  The journalist in me could not help but to research what other females have worn that number.  I realize everyone else must know this, but I discovered Julie Foudy (just a year younger than me) is an American retired soccer midfielder and Olympic gold medalist.  For the first time in my life I think I am starting to understand the fun in sports’ statistics and trivia!  I have learned Foudy became a mother and has since appeared in the HBO documentary “Dare to Dream:  The Story of the U.S. Women’s Soccer Team.”  I remember loving the movie, “Bend It Like Beckham” and I hope to watch it with my daughter soon.  I like the quote from the U.S. Olympic player Alex Morgan who said, “Whenever people say “women’s soccer,’ I want to correct them to say “soccer.”  Every girl has had their sport diminished because they’re girls.  All I can tell you, with great pride, was that Coach put my girl in the game some.  It was her second time on the field (one practice) and she managed to get a “steal” and a “pass.”  Their third grade team won against fourth grade girls!  I am so proud — and for whatever reason I never envisioned myself in the joyful position of soccer mom.

Recently I realized my little one had not had her hair cut in a year.  Long, shiny, and thick — it was running in waves just down to her behind.  I think she is the envy of any woman who ever grew up watching, “The Brady Bunch.”  I believe she has only had her hair cut three times in her tender nine years.  During this past year it has been remarked upon with a certain degree of shock that her 94-year-old paternal great-grandmother had never really “done” her own hair.  People my age with younger parents were stunned.  However I have distinct memories of going with my mother to the downtown Dallas original Neiman Marcus’ salon where she would get her hair shampooed and “set” on Saturdays before church on Sundays.  So I grew up seeing Weezie Jefferson’s type of hair dryers, with rows and rows of ladies sitting under them.  Back in the 70’s a kid had two choices:  they could read a magazine while waiting or just SIT THERE.  I remember one time I embarrassed Mama to pieces because I was circumspectly spinning in a vacant chair until it literally came undone.  To this day (and I still love to spin)  I never do more than three rotations on a barstool in the same direction without reversing it.  Growing up, to my knowledge at least, there were no “kiddie” hair salons around and my mother cut my hair at home.  My daddy may have joked about using a bowl, but Mama really did cut my bangs with Scotch tape.  To my perpetual horror, I always remember her coming at me with a long row of it, admonishing me to sit still.  The trouble is, she was never really level.  Not only did my bangs wind up higher on one side than the other — once she ripped that tape off, the double “cowlick” in the center of my forehead would then proceed to rise a good inch or two.  I know I have written before about my feelings on hair … both culturally and as a woman.  Although I was anxious, I have never cried when our little girl has had to have surgery.  However, I bawled last year when the guy took like seven inches off her beautiful locks.  Apparently he failed to understand the meaning of the word “trim.”  This time I took her to a (solely dedicated) children’s salon.  She was in heaven!  We picked up an INCREDIBLE detangling shampoo and my girl discovered the merits of an old school “beauty shop.”  I remember my daddy going to the barber shop (complete with spinning pole) and I think now I finally understand it.  I grew up in unisex salons (which are great!) but I believe I have come to understand the need for old school “beauty” shops for women and barber shops for men.  To the transgender community, I would like to hope that a man who identifies as a woman would feel totally at home with the girls.  Conversely, I would hope that my female friends who feel and identify as male would feel more comfortable in a barber shop.  Again, unisex salons are great; I just think I understand more the need/desire to congregate, socialize, and patronize with those who are “like-minded.”  Even more than race (which, in my opinion is a huge factor,) I see gender identification as an important “comfort” as well.  Afterward my little girl and I watched Queen Latifah’s “Beauty Shop,” which addresses both race and gender; all were accepted.  Circling back to my grandmother-in-law, in the “old days” ladies got their hair “done” once a week.  I can tell you my mama’s time at the beauty parlor was sacrosanct.  I suppose I am at the age of life where I totally understand that and yet can still snicker at the younger generation who, during the pandemic, has had to learn to do their own nails.  There really is no difference.  During this past year, with the whole world on lockdown, we have all struggled to not only adjust and survive, but to thrive.  My father always said that from adversity springs perseverance and success.  The French actress and model Laetita Casta has said, “Real beauty is to be true to oneself.  That’s what makes me feel good.”  I whole-heartedly agree with that statement.  Regardless of your race or gender identification:  whether you choose to shave your head or let your hair down … be true to yourself.