Years ago, I won’t say how many, I decided to wash my hair in the rain. I was in the throes of my ‘save the world’ glory days and had reasoned to myself that wasting well water was ridiculous given the enormous amount of water pouring down from the sky. The idea also spoke to my romantic little heart. I think I envisioned a very spiritual experience, letting Mother Nature cleanse my hair and soul while I nobly conserved environmental resources.
I stood in the rain, just outside the door, waiting for the rain to soak my hair. I threw out my arms and twirled, feeling very connected to the earth. I probably sang myself a little ditty, no doubt something trite like Kumbaya, and I moved to the lawn. The rain that day was somewhere between drizzle and torrent and while the rest of me was getting soaked, my hair was not. I moved up toward the garage, I imagine because I hoped that the rain would be heavier ten yards away.
My very thick hair had barely taken in enough water to be slightly tousled, let alone lathered and cleaned, but I got impatient with waiting. I tried to work soap into hair that was still mostly dry. Have you tried shampooing dry hair? It’s weird. It’s not remarkable in any way. It’s neither the worst nor the best idea ever. It just kinda doesn’t work.
Mom, Dave and Grandma were watching the whole process from the window. A funny little tangent about my brother is that in those days, as in these, Dave was a watcher. He took in everything and never said much about it. Nowadays he says a little more about it, usually some smartass remark that cuts straight to the point. Dave doesn’t always get or agree with why I do or believe, but he gets that I’m going to do or believe it regardless and he gets out of the way – which I’d argue is what makes him get me better than most people. He once gave a former boyfriend the best advice I’ve ever heard regarding myself: “She’s gonna do what she’s gonna do so just let her get on with it.”
Anyway, that day, my three family members watched this grand gesture of mine from the kitchen window. Dave watched with the bemused disinterest of a little brother. My mother was letting me go about my business. She was probably wondering what the hell I was thinking but I wasn’t hurting anything so why stop me? Mom also really enjoys the process of watching children learn, so I’m willing to bet it was fun for her.
If you knew Grandma Helen you know she was a lot of things, not least of which were spunky and practical. Like my brother, she was probably a little bemused. Like my mother, she couldn’t see any reason to stop me. But 20 minutes in her only granddaughter was standing in a swimsuit on the pavement, trying to lather suds into mostly dry hair with no end in sight. She called a halt. She marched outside with a bucket, filled it up with the hose, dumped it over my head, and helped me lather, rinse, repeat. Lesson learned, washing your hair in the rain seems nice but it’s actually just impractical. Now let’s go inside and play a game.
I didn’t recognize the larger lesson then, though I did learn to never rely on nature for salon-quality care. A couple decades later I’ve learned something bigger, and it wasn’t anything Grandma set out to teach.
Trying something new is admirable and should be encouraged, within reason. Maybe don’t try meth. But keeping at something just to keep at it is foolish, and ultimately futile. I have a lot of hair. It still takes several minutes under the constant stream of a steady showerhead just to get water through to my scalp. I knew that then, and in my defense my younger self probably misunderstood the difference between the focused concentration of gallons of water versus the dispersed nature of rain. Even if my efforts were doomed from the start, there was no shame in trying them. But at some point, someone needed to acknowledge that it wasn’t working and take action. That day’s action came from Grandma with a bucket.
Grandma’s somewhere else these days, and not many problems can be solved with a bucket. But learning from the past, and knowing when to bring out the metaphorical bucket, are important skills. Try. Try again. Strategize. Think. Do. Practice, and keep practicing, until you’re better. But if you’ve given it a solid go and practice isn’t making perfect, walk away. Accept that which others have accepted before you.
I’ve realized this doesn’t apply to only one area of life. The easy example is giving soccer a season but at the end of the season, acknowledging you’ve never once managed to kick the ball and perhaps tennis is your sport. The less obvious example is walking away from a book you don’t enjoy, or an art show that doesn’t speak to you. Practice not bringing skill, and participation not bringing joy, are on the same plane.
Know when to quit. Give things a chance, but for god’s sake limit those chances. Clinging to something because you can’t face ‘quitting’ is a good way to miss out on The Things That Matter. I’ve clung a lot in the past. I’m hoping to cling less in the future. I get the sense it’s something that takes practice. Ohhhh, the irony.
I’m also hoping that someday I’ll have the opportunity to pass this nugget on to my munchkins. I won’t expect them to understand right away, but I do hope that they work it out more quickly than I did. It’s comforting that every generation teaches what it knows, and sort of a miracle that even with all the time spent learning the same things, we still manage to advance. I’ll tell the kids this story, and I’ll explain what I learned from it. If they still decide to give rain washing a whirl, I’ll watch from the kitchen window. When it isn’t working I’ll march out there with a bucket, as my grandmother did before me. Lather, rinse, repeat. Then move forward.
Auntie Lyz 
Bravo!
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