FoxCraft

Gone Today, Hair Tomorrow

The barber scissors. There they were, just where they've been all my life, in the second drawer of the little chest of drawers outside the bathroom door in my parents' house.

Well, not quite where they've been all my life. It's a different chest of drawers, not the cardboard one I remember from childhood but the wooden one that replaced it somewhere in the last few decades. Oh, and it's a different bathroom, too, in a different house.

But on a recent visit to my parents, I found the familiar scissors right where they belonged. They still looked lethal, too, with their slender black blades. When I made a comment to my mother about them being around as long as I could remember, she said, "Oh, longer than that. I had those before we were married."

Let's see, 1947 . . . count the decades on my fingers . . . last fall was my parents' 65th wedding anniversary. That means the scissors are nearly 70 years old.

They're still being used, too, though it's been a while since they've known the workload they had in their heyday. Back then, my mother gave regular haircuts to four daughters, my father, and sometimes herself.

I remember sitting on a stool in the kitchen, a plastic cape around my shoulders, listening to the snip, snip of those scissors at the back of my neck and watching severed bits of my hair accumulate on the floor. As the stylee rather than the stylist, it would be my job to sweep it up later. The biggest challenge was holding my head still at the same time I tried to direct puffs of air out of my extended lower lip so they would dislodge the tiny hairs that were tickling my nose.

Most of those haircuts turned out quite well, too. The one exception was the time my mother worked on my hair for a long time without getting it to come out right. When she got frustrated, my father—whose hair-trimming skills were usually reserved for horses' manes—took a turn. Eventually they both gave up and fell back on the reassuring philosophy, "It's just hair; it will grow."

When my grandmother saw me the next day, her first words were, "Don't ever let your mother cut your hair like that again!"

As if I, a mere kid, could be expected to challenge the woman wielding those wicked scissors.

At least my mother never drew blood. As I did once, years later, when I was cutting my young son's hair and nicked his ear. We were angry at each other at the time, and I felt guilty for years, wondering whether at some subconscious level I might have done it on purpose.

Maybe one of those traumatic trimmings has had something to do with my long-time reluctance, as an adult, to do anything different with my hair. I started letting it grow when I was in high school in the 60's, kept it long and straight during the hippie era of the early 70's, and mostly just left it that way because it was easy.

Besides, I never could decide what else to do with it. Oh, I've made a few changes over the years. At some point I cut bangs (which the British call a "fringe," a rather more accurate description, really). I chopped it to shoulder length now and then; even had it permed a few times.

But this week, I got it layered and cut to chin length, the shortest it's been since eighth grade. My neck feels naked, and when I wash my hair it feels as if there's nothing there. I haven't mastered the art of hat-wearing. (Mash it flat? Stuff the ends in? Let them stick out?)

But it looks nice. It's an appropriate style for a person with grandchildren taller than she is. Even if said person still thinks of herself as a brunette, despite increasing silver evidence to the contrary. I like it—mostly. I think. I'm pretty sure.

And on the days I don't, there's always that reassuring bit of tonsorial wisdom. "It's just hair; it will grow."

Flaunt It When You've Got It

Sex appeal. It's hard to define, but we know it when we see it. We've all seen the woman who can raise the temperature ten degrees just by walking into a room. All the women either want to be her or are tempted to drop a poisoned olive into her martini. All the men want to take her home—and not to meet their mothers.

I have never been one of those women.

Maybe sex appeal is genetic. Maybe it's learned. Or maybe it's simply a matter of paying attention. If you want guys to notice you, it probably is a good idea to notice them back. This is the part I've always missed.

Like the time, as a freshman in college, I was sunbathing on the grass near my dorm. The football coach came by with a couple of high school seniors he was recruiting. With the boys at his heels, he veered off the sidewalk and came over to ask me a question.

My work-study job was in the admissions office, so it wasn't completely unreasonable for the coach to ask me an admissions question. Except I knew perfectly well he knew the answer as well as I did. I answered him politely anyway, he introduced the two boys, I said hi, there was an awkward pause, then they went on their way and I went back to my book.

I'm sure you've seen the formula by now, but it was months before I figured it out. Coach has good football prospects. Prospects are 18-year-old guys. Coach sees girl in bikini. Coach makes introductions. Coach figures chemistry will do its work.

Except the coach didn't know I never took chemistry. He saw a perfect recruiting opportunity, but I blew it. The losing football season the next year was probably all my fault.

Fast-forward about 30 years. I needed to replace a couple of thermal-paned windows in my house. No big deal; I took the windows out of their frames and took them to the store for the repair.

When I went back later to pick them up, the man who waited on me was exceptionally friendly and helpful. He took care of the paperwork, loaded the windows into my car, and then asked me if I had someone at home to reinstall them for me. No, I said. He offered to come to my house after work and take care of it. I said thanks, I could handle it myself. I was a little surprised at the offer—it seemed like taking customer service a bit too far.

Later, telling a friend about it, I asked, "Do I look incompetent to you? That guy thought I wasn't smart enough to do a simple thing like put a window back in."

My friend asked, "How old was this guy?"

"About my age. Why?"

"Didn't you get it? He was flirting. If you'd let him install the windows, he'd probably have asked you out."

"Oh." I hadn't noticed. Never mind.

One time, though, I did experience what it's like to have the attention of every guy in the place. My husband's construction company was working on a job in Minnesota. They needed a new pickup, and my husband found a used Dodge in Illinois. He flew me there and dropped me off to drive the pickup back to the jobsite.

It was a gorgeous truck, one sleek ton of gleaming black and gray with chrome that had been polished till it sparkled. Only a year old, it was so clean that it even smelled new. Its Cummins diesel engine rumbled like a kitten on steroids.

I climbed in, adjusted the seat as far forward as it would go, and roared off toward the Interstate. With the power I had under the hood, the six-hour trip across Wisconsin and half of Minnesota was a piece of cake. It was late afternoon when I pulled into the parking lot of our motel, shut off the ignition, and let the truck grumble into silence.

I got out. I stretched. Then I noticed several young guys across the parking lot, obviously construction workers just getting off for the day. They were looking in my direction. I could see the desire in their eyes. They were practically drooling.

I knew exactly what they wanted, and I knew I had it. My reaction was smug satisfaction. I gave them a big smile, thinking, Don't you wish. What I have here is way out of your league.

I knew they were looking at my truck.

Dance Lessons

One, two, three; one, two, three. With its irresistible, sweeping rhythm, the waltz feels like joy in motion. Nothing is more fun than swooping around the floor in grand circles and elegant turns.

My husband, Wayne, was six foot four. His long arms windmilled with such energy when he got into a passionate conversation that his elbows became a public menace. His long legs could cover a lot of ground in a hurry, across a construction site or across the dance floor. During a polka we would lap everyone else two or three times, with Wayne driving and me hanging on for dear life and trying not to lose my shoes.

Our favorite dance, though, was the waltz. Waltzing, Wayne was grace itself in size 15 cowboy boots.

We took dance classes. We went to dances. Once we crashed a wedding dance in Pukwana, South Dakota. For several years, we had great fun on various dance floors. Then, as so often happens, we got busy. His job required more and more travel. Almost without our noticing it, dancing became one of those things that we were always going to do more of—next week, or next winter, or when we had more time.

Then, on September 3, 2002, just before midnight at the end of an ordinary Tuesday, the doorbell rang. Standing on the step were Wayne's business partner, his office manager, a highway patrolman, and a priest. They were waking me up to tell me that Wayne's small plane had crashed a few hours earlier. He and his good friend and employee Chuck Pemble had died in a North Dakota pasture.

The waltz that we considered our special song was one made popular by Anne Murray: "Could I Have This Dance For the Rest of My Life?" We did have that dance. We just didn't realize that "the rest of his life" would be quite so short.

When someone you love dies, that huge loss is surrounded by a great many smaller ones. One of the things I lost along with Wayne was dancing. At first, just hearing a waltz was enough to bring me to tears.

Eventually, time and love and living did their work, and my broken heart began to heal. Even dancing made its way back into my life, with a new partner who also loves the elegant, swooping grace of the waltz.

Life is a dance, done to complex music. Sometimes the steps are difficult, and the rhythm can change when we least expect it. Each of us has our own music, and we never know how long the song will last.

But while the music is playing, we have choices. We can sit to one side and watch because we think dancing is only for the stars. We can become so busy and distracted that we don't even hear the music. Or we can get out there on the floor and dance—for the rest of our lives.

 

In loving memory of Wayne Christopherson. Unbelievably, it's been ten years. Whatever the occasion, wherever the dance floor, a part of you is always there for every waltz.