The Hair Stays Up

FIRST PUBLISHED 27th May 2025

I got a compliment last week.
“You look amazing,” she said.
I smiled, thanked her,
said it was just my hair,
washed, dried,
worn down for once.

No makeup.
No new clothes.
Just hair that wasn't scraped back
in a tired knot
to make space
for everything else.

It had been up for years.
Held in place by habit,
by sick, by spills,
by glue sticks,
by grubby hands
and the baby always on my chest.

Tied back for forest school,
for puddles and paint,
for holding it together
when I couldn’t hold much else.

Then came the second.
The first reset.
Another baby.
More sick, less sleep.
More of me poured out
into tiny upturned faces
and wide, wondering eyes.

I gave it all.
Including my hair.
It stayed up.
Tamed. Tight.
A single band holding back
the chaos, the care, the cost.

Time passed.
Two to buckle into car seats.
Two to chase at playgroup.
Two snacks, two moods,
two hearts I knew better than my own.

Pit stops on hard shoulders,
sick in supermarket bags,
pulling over mid-journey
because someone needed holding
and someone else just needed me.

The hair got tighter.
Not styled, not brushed,
just gathered up with quiet focus,
ready for whatever the day would bring.

The first one started school.
The second, nursery.
And I had one month.

Just one.
Eight months pregnant,
moving slowly,
but still.

No one tugging at my sleeve.
No one spilling juice on the floor.
Just one month
with a little more space
to breathe.

Then,
he arrived.
Our third.
A new heartbeat in the house.

The years had changed me
but newborn life came back
like breath.

The nights, the feeds,
the reflux, worse this time.
The arms never free,
the hair never down.

Love poured out again,
and again,
and again.
The tiredness wrapped itself
around everything.

And then,
the world closed in.

Schools shut.
Nurseries too.
The house became
a classroom,
a crash mat,
an echo chamber of needs.

I taught long division
with a baby on my hip.
Sounded out phonics
while someone spilled rice.
Made Play-Doh dinosaurs,
cleaned the kitchen three times
before lunch.

We learned together.
We bent, adapted, broke.
Made it work.
Mostly.
Some days we didn’t.

The hair was up.
Always.
There was no room for hair.
No mirror checks.
Just hold it back,
keep it out of the way.

Because they needed me.
And I was proud
to be needed.

Time moved on.
They all started school.
Three drop-offs.
Three bags.
Three different reminders
spinning in my head.

There were still clubs,
still parties,
still uniforms to scrub.
Still tears at the gate
from the smallest one,
clinging tight
like he might never let go.

There was joy,
always joy.
But the days were full.
And the list was long.
And I stayed tied back.

The hair,
I mean.
Still scraped up
to make space
for everything else.

And then,
a quiet shift.
Not a reinvention.
Just one morning
with time.

I dried my hair.
Let it fall,
not for a special occasion,
not for anyone else.
Just to see what it looked like.

Same clothes.
Same tired eyes.
No lipstick, no glow.
But something had softened.
Even I could feel it.

And later,
a friend said,
“You look amazing.”

I laughed.
“Just blow-dried my hair.”
Like it was nothing.
Like it wasn’t
a beginning.

It was just one day.
The hair went back up
the very next morning.

Still school runs,
still lunchboxes,
still someone needing me
before I’ve even had a wee.

But that day,
I saw her.
The me who’s still in there.
Changed, yes,
changed for good,
but not gone.

I don’t want to go back.
I don’t miss the old me.
I’ve grown into this version
with every sticky hand,
every broken night,
every quiet triumph
that no one else saw.

But I do see her now.
In a mirror,
on a good hair day.

And I don’t roll my eyes
at the scraggy bun.
It held me together
when nothing else could.

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