Lots of things change from generation to generation—the music, the fashion, the fads—but the importance of a girl’s hair remains through the ages. I suspect that hair-related stress is as old as dirt.

Style Change
Ever notice how few of us are content with our tresses? The girl with glorious masses of curls spends endless hours straightening with a flat iron and myriad straightening products. Meanwhile, the girl with ruler-straight hair that hangs as neatly as Cleopatra’s wants curls. Her life is one of perms, curling irons and curl-enhancing hair gels, mousses and spritzes.

The hair-goal of the ‘80s was to have big hair. Really big hair. We used curling irons, mousse and massive amounts of cement-like hairspray to create a geyser of hair that shot straight up from the top of our heads, then waterfalled into a puffy, teased-out cascade down our backs. I spent every morning in front of the mirror in my room, spraying and teasing, holding up a hand-held mirror so I could view the back of my head, scrutinizing the symmetry and puff-factor of my do.

How my hair turned out either made my day or ruined it.

Things haven’t changed much. Chelsey and her friends spend hours poring over magazines, circling the styles they like, fixing their own hair and each other’s. They ask each other, “How’s my hair? Does it look OK?”

I’ve got to be honest. Even though I’m 35 now and a mom of three girls, I still obsess about my hair. But I no longer think hair is a matter of life or death.

Perspective Change
It took a catastrophe in the life of a friend to change my perspective. Like me, Bette was a wife and mom. Her son Kevin was 14 when she was diagnosed with leukemia. A match couldn’t be found for the bone marrow transplant Bette needed. Doctors could keep the disease somewhat under control for a time, but they couldn’t fix her.

A woman with a strong faith, Bette loved people. She always welcomed guests into her home, listened to people’s troubles and prayed for them. A volunteer who worked with children in our church, she spent hours every week planning lessons and crafts.

One of the coolest things about Bette was that, unlike me, she didn’t obsess about her looks. She loved grabbing bargains at Goodwill or yard sales. Her black hair hung simply, untouched by hairspray, and she never gave it a thought. Bette was too busy living life and loving people to bother with things like makeup and hair.

Then the chemo began. And all her hair fell out. The ladies at church bought her all colors and designs of bandanas to cover her bare scalp. Even in her weakened state, Bette dragged herself to church to work with those children every week. She kept on mailing out birthday cards and calling me to ask how I was (as if my problems compared to hers!). I was in awe of Bette’s selflessness, how she continued caring so much for others while she suffered so much.

Life Change
One day, when I stopped over to visit Bette, I found her looking depressed. Usually joking and smiling, this day she sat quietly and stared at the TV. She sat in the recliner where she spent her days. Too weak to cook or clean, just getting herself to the bathroom and back was a chore. I sat with her watching TV until she told me what was on her mind.

Tears filled her eyes. “I looked in the mirror this morning and thought I look like I already died. I’m so ugly. How can Glenn even look at me?”

Her words broke my heart. Bette was the loveliest person I knew. When I was jealous, she was gracious; while I was vain, she was humble; while I was greedy, she was generous. She was all the things that mattered: a great friend and neighbor, a loving wife and mom, a dedicated teacher.

I rushed to her side and held her hand. Tears streamed down my face as I told her how truly beautiful she was. Several months later she died, leaving behind hundreds of people who’d been blessed by her life.

Knowing Bette and losing her changed me. Her struggle made me see the definition of beauty in a different way. Beauty isn’t how shiny and cool your hair is. It’s how you live and how you love. Now that I know that, I’m better able to laugh at a bad hair day. I can tie it in a ponytail or cover it with a hat and then go love the people around me. My kids don’t care what my hair looks like. They want a good bedtime story, a hike in the woods, some fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. My friends don’t want a buddy with voluminous locks. They want someone to listen, to care, to laugh and cry with them. When I die, I want the people I know to have something to say besides, “She had nice hair.”

Hair is fun. It really is. Have a good time playing with it. But then, walk away from the mirror and go live your life. Be a friend, be a daughter, be someone who makes a difference.