Hair, Chapter 4: In Conclusion


And here’s Grandboy Youngest just the other week. You can see the mix-up in parentage. As with his sisters, the Japanese deoxyribonucleics overtook the pure unadulterated Swiss-German genetic material. Instead of a butter pale flavor we got lush yummy 90% cacao.

I was only cutting back on the chocolate. He only wanted a trim.

He had Xavier along, a Pittsburgh buddy. So Xavier filmed. He caught me prodding at Grandboy to hold the comb, and I’m perplexing, now, about what real hairdressers do—the trained ones—with the comb when they’re cutting. Certainly mine didn’t make me hold theirs. Did they have aprons with pockets? Are the professionals so adroit they can wedge the comb—tiny size, not a lunker like I use—between a pair of fingers not occupied with slicing and dicing? It’s just a question. I’m not in some big rush to learn a new trick, not at this late date.

(Layering—The Cowsills—by Grandgirl. I’ll say a bit about her later.)

 


 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Image
Friday Afternoon                                   En route to cousin Ann’s house, relegated to the back seat, I keep clicking clicking, trying to catch perfectly son and mother. But what’s more telling is the visit. We’re met by Ann at her front door. I’m right behind Mom, ready to grab at her if she topples. “Now you’re a spring chicken!” I announce to Ann, because it’s Mom, not Ann, who’s 95. Spring chicken relatively speaking, I mean, because being around somebody ancient makes you suddenly young. I’m practically a chick today. But right away Ann, her round eyes a-sparkle, lets out that she’s 91. Oh my. Paulson and I didn’t realize. As we navigate past her, what else flies out of her mouth is a Bible verse, although for all I know it’s Ben Franklin. “They that compare themselves among themselves are not wise,” she chortles. Paulson loves it. I love it. We laugh and laugh. She’s always been a ...
Read more
Image
Cookies for Barry, part 2   Because when I asked him whether people ever leave their rugs and never come back to reclaim them—he has a carpet-cleaning business—he stepped over to the pile of rolled-up ones along the wall, hefted up a big wool piece, unfurled it on the floor, and said, Here. You can have it. It once lay in Barry’s home. He’d been wanting to drop it off at Mercy House—a local, seedy secondhand shop for the down and out as well as regular ordinary propertied bargain hunters. Donations are always accepted. Barry didn’t know this, but the drab yellow was the exact perfect color. He said the rug we’d brought in—worn, too small for the bedroom—probably wasn’t worth the cleaning fee. He helped lug his beauty out to our car. When I took him his cookies yesterday, he said—well, I forget what he said. Maybe something about things working out for us both. He’d not had to bother with hauling the rug away. He has my everlasting devotion. But here’s what’s dicey. How can a per...
Read more
Image
Her Falls , or (Not) Navigating the Terrain    This one wasn’t anything, really. Clutching the green tomatoes she’d just picked for a pie for her husband, she went to step back onto the patio but her foot caught on the concrete edge. “Gotta keep my head up,” she told herself on the way down. “I can’t hit the patio with my head.” “Go get Dad,” she called to son Phil in the living room, tomatoes all around her. He’d come to the cottage to visit. She doesn’t think she made the pie. This second one, she was watching helicopter rides at a fundraiser event down the road from the retirement complex. Standing under a tree at the edge of the field, she was getting tired. She propped herself against the trunk for a bit, then decided to head back to the auction tent. A twig on the ground, though, caught her notice. It might cause somebody to trip. She smacked her foot down on it to break it—and suddenly dizzy, she crumpled. “Are you okay?” asked one of the young guys sitting near...
Read more