A Little Teary

The Slate article I chose is an advice column. I added it as a hyperlink; I hope this is what you meant, Ms. Smith. The question asked was interesting in a weird way. You’ll understand if you read it. I’ve always wondered what makes those “advisors” qualified to give people advice. Sometimes their recommendations are ridiculous.

This week I’m a little lost for words, and that’s not like me. I’ve been distracted for the last week, but I’m not surprised; we always get so busy when my sister comes from out of town. This time she brought an essay she wrote, and I’d like to share:

The Last Hair

Today my husband’s last hair was gone. I couldn’t help the sadness that surfaced from seeing it. If you’re thinking my husband & I lived a long life together and this hair is the last one on his balding head, I say to you: I wish it was…but God’s will is superior to all. My husband passed away years ago.
We lived a normal married life. We had our ups & we had our downs. The rooms of this house are filled with memories. They have laughter from all the funny moments we shared. There are dried up tears on the couches where I clearly remember crying & thinking “Did I make a wrong choice in marrying this man?” There are all types of screaming hidden in these walls. The happy scream when he surprised me with a ticket to visit my family. The girly 5th grader scream when he tried to pick me up (& almost dropped me!) because I joked about wanting a “piggy back ride” during our newlywed years. The screams of anger filled fights.

No matter the emotions though, these rooms had another thing: Hair. My husband was a hairy man. Nothing abnormal, just your typical “non-Western” guy. I live in a non-carpeted beige tile house. I used to mop, vacuum, pour water and squeegee the floor, then mop with an old shirt, then grab a cloth to clean tough to reach areas….I’d walk into the room seconds later & find a hair on the floor. AHHHHHH! Beard hair! Chest hair! Leg hair! Head hair! It didn’t make any difference when I cleaned, how I cleaned or how often. Every time I sent food to a neighbor, I imagined the embarrassment if a little hair flew in.

After my husband’s death, we did the normal process: funeral, friends visited, I grieved, and then I took it day by day. The first year I hung on to everything that reminded me of him. The second I donated some of his clothes, until the years passed where the house had little traces of him except what little memories I kept. I adjusted slowly and of course as any woman, I cleaned when I needed to.
I was so used to cleaning up hair when I mopped that I didn’t realize they were disappearing….until now. I stood there starring at this small curly hair. I saw it among the dust I swept, and I froze. It had been a while since I’d seen a hair when I cleaned. I picked it up with the delicacy I held our first daughter when she was born. How long ago it seemed that this little thing bothered me? When I cleaned, my mission was to rid myself of the hairs once & for all…but now that I did, I sat in amazement.

I sat on that floor for what felt like hours…and cried. I cried because I missed my husband, hair, laughs, fights & all. I cried because I spent so much time stressing on something so useless, something that was a part of him. If given the choice now, I’d deal with it differently. I cried because, at that moment, I just needed to cry. ---Fatima Ankoud.

My brother-in-law is alive, but this essay was just written from Fatima’s heart in dedication to my mother who lost my father. My sister’s essay made me cry, because it made me think of the small things that aggravate me about my husband, and how much I would miss every annoying thing about him if he were to pass away. It made me appreciate my husband so much more, because I truly could not imagine life without him.