Southern Roots
At some point, I became a young woman. Somewhere between ballet lessons and spelling bees, I began to spend my time reading the Wall Street Journal. I no longer trailed shyly behind my grandmother to the nail salon, but began booking my own appointments. It was some time after I mastered how not to rip my stockings, but before I experienced heartbreak for the first time, that I went to bed and woke up as a young woman. Ashy orange foundation no longer found itself buried in my pores, and my head was no longer the biggest thing on my body.
Where I come from, stretch marks serve as a rite of passage. Stretch marks mean that you are growing and just a little closer to becoming a woman. As a lanky kid, I checked every day for those things. Yet when they finally came, I was conflicted. In July, I’d be able to sway my hips the same way the older girls did in the Alabama breeze, but by September, I’d be changing quickly in my Northern Virginia school’s locker room, so I wouldn’t get any “what happened’s”. The thought of having to explain the new lines and indentations in my skin slightly overshadowed my excitement of making my acquaintance with womanhood. My grandmother had always told me that country girls were the most gorgeous girls in the world., She was a country girl, and because I looked “just like her,” that meant I was beautiful, too.
Long before the popularity of hydrafacials, lymphatic drainage massages, and upscale salon suites, there was the nail salon off Veterans Parkway, Edna’s Beauty Salon, and Mi Mi Beauty Supply. Most Saturday mornings, I would tag along to one of the three. Too young to get anything done myself, I’d sit as my grandmother looked through thick books of nail swatches or stand over her as she got individual lashes done. I watched as women floated in and out of whatever space we were in. I listened to “grown folks business” as the scent of floral and vanilla perfume cradled me. I learned things like how to prevent makeup from melting off in the scorching heat and how to sit down a certain way when wearing two pairs of Spanx so you don't suffocate. I would begin my ascent to womanhood soon, and I was determined to be the most beautiful version of myself.
Years later, I too sat in the nail salon. As I get older, I find myself opting for simplicity like my mother. When it's my turn, I say, “white gel pedicure, French tip manicure, please”. I still remember the cardinal rule: Never cheat on your nail tech unless absolutely necessary. Like the women who came before me, and the ones that will come after me, I partake in the weekly beauty crawl: Nail Salon, Eyebrow Threading, European Wax Center. Much like my foremothers, I save money in any way that I can. Northern Virginia prices don’t care about tradition. I do my own hair, lymphatic drainage massage, and when I remember, I sit in the sauna for as long as I can stand it. I wear my retainer less than I should, and I have a 70-year-old perfume guy instead of a 25-year-old Macy's makeup counter girl. It is not the routine that I envisioned, but it’s the one I’ve come to love.
As time goes by, I realize that the ascent to womanhood is not a linear journey. It is one rooted in beauty and struggle. I find comfort in carrying on the rituals of my foremothers, but much like anything else in life, I find difficulty in the uncertainty. At times, I wonder if my roots are strong enough to withstand thePerhaps one of the most beautiful things about women is our willingness to evolve. I do not view the world in the same way that I did at thirteen. In ten years, I will not view the world in the same way that I did at twenty. There’s a shared understanding of women everywhere that our experiences shape our stories and act as a beacon of light, guiding us through the most influential parts of our lives.