dorkfysh's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- worry My mom did other people’s hair for most of my life. I remember being little and coming to visit her at work and I would get my nails done and they would put my hair in curlers and I would sit under the giant hairdryer and rub my fingers over the little holes in the plastic above my head. The air smelled sharp with all the perms and hairspray and I would always find tiny little hairs all over my clothes. As I got older my mom gave me little jobs like sweeping and cleaning the brushes by going over them with the tines of a rat tail comb. I always wanted to take home the giant keychain of hair color samples and use it as wigs for my dolls. I liked to sit in the corner with a stack of magazines and read about things I barely understood while the women around me gossiped about everyone in town. I knew the comings and goings of everyone’s husbands and wondered why anyone would want one. Nobody seemed to like the ones they had. I knew everyone’s ailments and how awful their teenagers were. My mom would nod and agree and give what she thought was sage advice and when they didn’t follow it she would always say they that they should have listened to her. At the end of her career she was mostly just putting curlers into the blue rinsed hair of old ladies who would fall asleep under the dryer and would startle when my mom touched their arms to let them know it was time to go. It was a far cry from the days when she would go to hair shows and create exotic sculptures of hair on the heads of her friends from the disco. One time she took me with her to check in at a show on the Queen Mary. I remember walking across the parking lots with my hand in hers and she looked down and commented on my chipped nail polish and scabby knees. I think I was about 7 or 8. She stopped me in the middle of the parking lot and put my hair up in a perfect round bun with loose ringlets around my face and made me take off my shorts so she could tie a scarf around my waist as a skirt. It was my job to be cute at all times. I wonder what she will think when she sees the battleground of scars and scabs covering the legs of my girl. What will she think of her leopard print skirts and black t-shirts? Will she allow her wear her cat ears every day? Will she make her wear a one piece bathing suit to cover her pot belly? I have already decided to cut and color the kid’s hair before the trip so my mom won’t pass out dead on the floor. I hope my mother doesn’t ever make her feel ugly. 12:05 p.m. - June 12, 2003 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||
|
||||||