A Mother's Beauty

A Mother's Beauty

A Poem by Ash

As a child I thought my mother to be this great beauty that I would never come close too. 
Her naturally tanned skin that came from my grandmothers Navajo roots, and her dark curly hair, which fell in tight wild ringlets, that were given to her by my Greek grandfather, created this almost exotic look that I envied.
I would look in the mirror trying to see her in me, and was only met with a slightly similar, washed out version.
Skin not as dark, eyes not as vibrant, hair not as bright. 
Neither curly not straight. It just fell in lank, mousy brown, frizzy waves. 
As a teenager, I would spend hours in the tanning bed, soaking in the melanoma forming rays. 
Trying to make my skin darken to her particular shade. 
I permed my hair twice trying to achieve her enchanting curls, only to have my hair dry out and assume a texture that resembled that of straw.
In my early twenties I gave up on being anything like her.
Years of trying to achieve her level of beauty left me tired, and I found at times, resentful. 
So, in my quest to become her polar opposite, I rained dye upon my hair, and it's hue changed as frequently as Tonks from Harry Potter. Brown, black, red, blue, purple, every color of the rainbow represented on my scalp. 
I relished in getting tattoos and piercings.
Each colorful prick on the needle permanently separating me from her, and bringing my closer to myself. 
And through the pain, I had an epiphany. 
My mother's beauty wasn't the only beauty out there. 
Her's was that of a rose. Quiet, tranquil, classic. 
Traits that I did not, and would never possess
Mine, however, resembled that of a dandelion. Bright, loud, and ever-changing. 
There isn't only one version of beautiful, and it took years, and my children's voices to make me realize this.
My son calling me a princess every time I wore a dress.
My daughter tracing the outlines of my tattoos, saying she wanted flowers on her skin too. 
The baby playing with my brightly colored hair.
All gives me affirmation that I am beautiful. 
I no longer look for traces of my mother in my face. I am not her, nor will I ever be, and I am perfectly content in that fact. 
Every garden has it's flowers, the beautiful blossoms put there for people to admire.
However, every garden has it's weeds also, and whose to say they are any less beautiful. 

© 2017 Ash


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Added on April 3, 2017
Last Updated on April 3, 2017
Tags: Mother, body image, insecurity, beauty

Author

Ash
Ash

Lafayette, GA



About
I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions -Augusten Burroughs Sarcasm is an art, and I'm flipping Van Gogh I am a wild child, always stealing the stars and gett.. more..

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