Cows were present in the delivery room when I was born and they really loved me up, or they just thought me very salty and that’s why I have so many cow-licks. A hairdresser told me recently that I have SIX separate cowlicks. This explains a lot. My hair goes in multiple directions at once. I have to sculpt it into place or it sproings.
With my husband away at camp for the summer, I got so involved in a story on the radio that I forgot to brush my hair before leaving the house Sunday morning. I had put a wet washcloth on top of my head while in the shower trying to tame the biggest whorl near the back of my head, but I forgot to brush it. I'm not fond of the trampled grass look - you know, like when a dog has walked around and around in circles trampling the grasses to prepare for sleep? When I got in the car, I remembered that I forgot to brush. So, I poured out some water into my hands from the bottle in my car and dragged my hands through to try to tame the hair. It's that one whorl back there that really bothers me. I tried to cover it over - that exposed part of my scalp at the center of the whirl-pool. Without a mirror to view the back of my head, I kept pinching and sculpting it and hoped for the best.
Arriving at church, I sat half-way between the entrance and the stage, where the choir and chamber ensemble were all ready to perform Mozart and Haydn. I sat between friends Ann and Anna, and made a gesture at the back of my head meant to pull my hair over the cowlick patch. Then I let it go, thinking: Just Fuhgeddaboudit! (It's a New Jersey thing.)
My seat gave me a vantage point from which to observe backs of heads of half the congregation. Pew-bound folks seated before me seemed vulnerable, dear, disarming, and innocent as newborns - each with her or his own “head-navel” peeping out from even the most carefully coiffed do. I loved that I could see our common humanity in the whorls on all those heads.
The music began. I got all teary-eyed with love for my fellow humans. Sort of like watching babies sleep and knowing they are angels come to earth. My heart swelled with the music and heaved with barely containable love. People are so dear!
Why do I struggle so to tame my own cowlick and ban it from being part of my hairdo? Why do I abhor what seems like vulnerability - like being seen naked? On the one hand, I deem the crown as evidence of opening to Spirit; the point through which we may download celestial energy. On the other hand, (or foot) I can imagine Earth energy entering my feet and rising through my body to spritz out the top of my head like a spouting whale. If I expect the two polarities of Earth and Sky to meet and marry in my heart, why am I so embarrassed to let my cowlick show? Why can't I view myself as compassionately as I view my pew mates and all humanity who got up this morning and either did or did not brush their hair?
Everyone has at least one whorl where the hair began to whirl and swirl around and around to cover our heads with downy softness before we were born. I wonder what happens to the cowlicks when baldness happens. Is there still fuzz in which we can trace the circular pattern? I think mine goes clock wise - at least the most persistent one near the crown. The other most pesky one is above the outer corner of my right eye brow - right at the hairline. I can’t tell what direction it spirals… it’s just another wonky place where my hair goes kafoogeldie.
When I was nineteen, I worked as a telephone switch-board operator for a non-profit. One of the public relations fellows had identical twins. Mirror twins. The only way Lloyd and his wife Lois could tell Danny and Stevie apart was that one of them had a clockwise whorl; the other, anti-clockwise.
No complaints. I’m happy to have hair. I’ve been happy with it at times and I’ve been miserable with it. At this stage in life, the hair and I have reached at a truce. I’m no longer putting it on the ironing board to iron the curl out of it, as high-school buddy Judy and I used to do in the sixties. It’s a very short do now, not flowing down past my waist. Having the cowlicks identified and charted has been helpful. I know what I’m up against. I’m grateful for “product” that can (sometimes) glue it down. Most often, I feel a more like the character Alfalfa from The Little Rascals - with my cowlick sticking straight up, than like a shampoo model.
I wake up early enough to do a modicum of grooming before going out into the world. I try not to leave before the bed head and chenille marks on my face have been tamed. Still, I wish there were something I could do to cover that spot atop my head. Maybe next lifetime, I’ll order only one whorl, dead center, on top of my head and be done with worry and embarrassment over my dumb-ass hair... or become fond of hats.
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I celebrate my bare feet being in contact with and open to Mama Earth’s electrons. She gives them freely to us as part of her packaged deal to hold us close to her breast through gravity, and to keep us healthy with her Vitamin G. (G, for Grounding.) Those free electrons carry a negative charge. Even more so when we’re walking by a large body of water. It can promote a feeling of well-being as we balance our bodies electrically. Walking barefoot is the best anti-inflammatory and it doesn't cost a penny. All we have to do is take our shoes off! (Just be mindful there's no broken glass or stickers, eh?)
A toddler girl at the school where I was teaching in 1983 delighted us all one hot August afternoon. We took the class outside and filled some wading pools just to cool off. Little Marsha took off all her clothes and threw her arms skyward, squealing with joy, “Look! I’m barefoot all over!” Amen.
From head to toe, may you be well and held in the comfort of Mother Earth's lap. And when a cow comes by, let her lick your head. You'll be in good company.
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