I just recently read a blog that said silver hair may be trending.  Never mind that I’m four months late reading this exciting fashion news. Suddenly I feel in style.

During the era of the 1970s when straight hair was hip and the hippies flaunted it, I used giant curlers to calm my wavy tresses.  Once my mother ironed my hair so I could achieve the “in” look.  Not with a hair-straightening iron but with a regular iron-your-clothes kind of iron.  I was desperate.

When I was young and free as a breeze, living in my parents house, I enjoyed sewing my own clothes.  I was quite fashionable then.  I window-shopped the stores and looked at magazines mostly to see what was current so I could purchase fabric and make it for a fraction of the cost.  I enjoyed the craft of sewing, and saving money was a bonus.  The compliments about my clothing were nice also.

Fast forward several decades.  I shop consignment stores and gladly accept hand-me-downs.  I’ve got a favorite navy hoodie jacket that came from the discards of a lost and found box where I worked many years ago. Fashionista I am not.  Happily, I’m OK with that.

Insecurity weighed heavy in my teens, twenties and even my thirties.  By now, I’m not so consumed with what people think.  It is quite freeing.  I still want to look presentable when I head out the door.  I still iron, but only clothes for Sweet William and me since we like the crisp look.  And I am a regular customer to a wonderful hair stylist because she knows what to do with my curly hair.  She cuts it so I can wear it the way it was made to be.

I’ve learned some things during the years of my living.  One is I can never measure up to fashion plates, TV personalities, or even the woman next door.  Constant comparison is tiresome.

Someone said, “We can compare or we can connect.  But we can’t do both.”  Comparison with those more beautiful, more talented, more whatever only leads to an ever-ending feeling of failure.  Connecting leads to amazing relationships.

I’ve come to the conclusion that people don’t really care what I look like as long as I’m clean, neat, covered.  What they will remember is how they felt when they were in my presence.  Loved.  Accepted.  Heard.

Sometimes I wonder why I couldn’t I have known then what I have come to know now.  But that is the way of life.  We learn as we go.  Our experiences are the best teachers after all.  Even struggles that I just wanted to avoid or somehow get out of quickly have offered me instructions I could not have gotten otherwise.

In the eyes of my God, I am loved, accepted, and heard every single time.  I am also chosen, redeemed and adopted. Because of Jesus, I am clothed in righteousness. There is no one else who can give me that kind of grace, make that kind of connection to my heart.  I am not compared to anyone else, and He takes me as I am.

For a few brief moments in history I may be stylish.  The rest of my days I choose to wear a thankful, contented heart that can welcome and accept others.  You might also see me with my silver, curly hair and maybe my old navy hoodie

(Obviously I picked one of my better pictures.  I think that is called vanity.  I’m still working on that.)