My hairdresser…

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… is gorgeous. Kind of a cross between Natalie Portman and Amanda Seyfried. You get it. Gorgeous.

But that is beside the point. At least of this post.

At my last visit to her, somewhere between the blowout and the trimming of the bangs, my hairdresser mentioned that she is adopted. She doesn’t know her birthmom. She doesn’t even know if she’s still alive. She thinks her birthmom was a teenager when she got pregnant with her, and connected with her parents through mutual friends at church.

She thinks, through a series of third-hand information, that she has a couple of siblings. She is very interested in finding her siblings.

I told her that there are websites out there that can help adoptees locate their birthfamilies. I also said that, in my experience, she should know that not a day has gone by that her birthmom hasn’t thought of her. And, that her birthmom loves her.

In the mirror, I saw tears well up in her eyes as she brushed my hair. She nodded.

If, she said, she did meet her birthmom, she has some things she would like to say to her. She has no hard feelings toward her. She loves her parents. She had a great childhood. She may have a couple lingering questions of “why?,” but mostly, according to my stunning hairdresser, who also happens to be adopted, this is what she wants to tell her birthmom:

“Thank you. Thank you for choosing life for me. Thank you for giving me a great life. Thank you.”

Adoption is a beautifully painful thing.

It’s beautifully painful because even though a child leaves your arms, they never leave your heart.

It’s beautifully painful because a child doesn’t need to come from you, to belong to you.

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