IWSG: Hair Hysteria

                                                        



It's time for another edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group.  Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                                                      Hair Hysteria

                                                     

Surrounded by my favorite boys; 8/19

My mom's entire life revolved around her hair. From a young age, she fought by any means necessary to keep her hair from getting wet. Mom was the only one in her high school gym class who was able to talk her way out of taking four years of swimming.

Beginning in her 20s, Mom had weekly beauty shop appointments. She would patiently watch her beautician dry and style her hair. Then she would primp in front of the mirror with a pick until her hair was teased and coiffed to perfection, adding enough hairspray to choke an elephant. Fortunately, her saintly beautician didn't take it personally.

Is hair obsession hereditary? Though I suffered through four years of swimming in high school, I admit to being traumatized by bad hair days. Then fate stepped in.

The night before a haircut appointment last April, I received a text from my beautician informing me that she had a bad case of the flu and wasn't sure when she'd feel well enough to reschedule.

I hate change which is evidenced by the fact that I've had slight variations on the shag hairdo since I turned double digits. 

As much as I adore my beautician of over 20 years, I felt that maybe this would be a good opportunity to finally try something new.

Not only was I able to get into another highly recommended stylist two days later, but she was just steps away from our apartment building.

Our first meeting prompted her to ask, "Why do you have a Carol Brady hairdo?"

Carol Brady was the mom played by Florence Henderson on the popular sitcom The Brady Bunch. Shag hairstyles were all the rage in the 70s and Mrs. Brady was quite a trendsetter. The series ran from 1969-1974.

Though almost 50 years later, this was clearly not a compliment, I was in dire need of a stylist who wasn't afraid of hurting my feelings. Boy I miss my mom!

The beautician explained that I could have a more contemporary look by simply growing out my top layers, while trimming the surrounding longer layers. She styled it straight for the first few haircuts which looked great, but I had trouble working with it. Even using a flat iron didn't help.

When I pleaded with her to bring back my shorter layers which had morphed into wings, she assured me that if I just held out a little longer, my hair would be easier to handle. I told her that she was like having an AA sponsor.

Like any good sponsor, she could relate to my frustrations, as she also has curly hair. I decided to follow her lead and stop fighting the heat and humidity by embracing my curls. I'm happier and my husband's happier, so it's a win-win. 

Now I have the best of both worlds, as my former beautician (who's also a color expert) moved into a shop just blocks away from where we live, so I still see her whenever I need highlights.

Hair obsession doesn't only effect the women in our family. Years ago, a close relative joked that he was a member of the "Balding Men's Club," after one of my sons saw him talking to another balding man, and assumed that all men experiencing hair loss knew each other.

One day after being traumatized by the worst haircut of his life, the close relative ranted to the barber in vivid details about what a terrible job he had done. 

Finally, the barber asked, "If I don't charge you for the haircut, will you promise never to come back to my barbershop again?"

Sharp Wit Cuts Deep

                                                                   

                                                                   

Welcome to another edition of Alex J. Cavanaugh's Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex, and all of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend support. Below is a story that hints at where my insecurities all began.

                                                           Sharp Wit Cuts Deep


I'm used to hurling insults, and clever cut-ups. Yes, I am talking about my mother again, and this cutting edge story is not for the squeamish. It all began in July when my mom announced once again that I'm a "horrible daughter." I'm hoping that this story will unite other horrible daughters, but realize that this is wishful thinking, as no one has committed a more heinous act than I.

My mom and I used to have weekly outings to the beauty shop. When I began working last year, her caregiver started accompanying her for long, leisurely afternoons of billowing blow driers and near death by hairspray asphyxiation.

Now my mom doesn't have to travel farther than the second floor of her building for weekly comb-outs and blow- drys. Remarkably, during her five month stay only one stylist has quit.

Mom: She doesn't know from teasing.

Horrible Daughter: No one likes to be teased, especially about their work.

Mom: I'm talking about teasing hair. You know with a comb. Will you please try to keep up!

Her beautician for over 20 years is an expert at teasing and roughing, so she set the bar very high. The second floor stylist hasn't quite earned her trust yet, so my mom has decided to take matters into her own hands.

Mom: Bring me a pair of scissors.

Horrible Daughter: Why do you need scissors?

Mom: I don't have time for all of these questions. Dinner's in three hours. Just bring scissors, or don't bother to come.

Visions danced through my head of all the terrible things my mom could do with scissors, because she has Parkinson's Disease, and her hand shakes. She could cut her finger, or drop the scissors on the floor and step on it while she's scooting around in the wheelchair. Another scenario involved unknowingly dropping it on the bed and bleeding to death in her sleep. So I hatched a plan.

On my next visit, instead of greeting me with, "Hello my precious daughter," the first words out my mom's mouth were, "Did you bring me the scissors?"

I smiled and handed her my boys' safety scissors with curved edges from 1992. They looked brand spanking new. My mom was not happy.

The subject of scissors didn't come up again until about a month later when she asked me to get something out of her nightstand drawer. I discovered a larger pair of contraband scissors with squared off edges for cutting bandages.

Horrible Daughter: Where did you get these?

Mom: The nurse gave them to me.

Horrible Daughter: No she didn't. You stole them.

Mom: I did not steal them. She left them in my room.

Fortunately, there was no sign of a shiv under her bed.

Recently, my mom brought up the scissors again when she decided that the stylist couldn't be trusted, and she was going to give herself a haircut.

It was a beautiful Saturday, so my husband and I took my mom for a long walk to a shopping center about a mile away. She loves to shop, and even found a cute top with a gift card from her grandsons. After dinner, we walked back to her room.  Then she said, "Did you bring me the scissors?" When I replied, "No," she didn't take it well.

Mom: It's the only thing I asked you to do.

Horrible Daughter: You can't give yourself a haircut. You could poke your eye out.

Mom: I'll be fine. I never complain about anything. It's the one thing that would make me happy...

I started to gather her clothes from the hamper to take home to wash.

Mom: Don't wash my clothes. Don't ever do anything for me again.

She said goodbye to my husband, and not one word to me.

A few days later our cousins went to visit my mom, and they offered to bring her anything she wanted. They suggested bringing cookies, candy, anything at all. My mom didn't want to be a bother, but she thought she was low on Kleenex, as she was down to four boxes. Hence, they brought her some emergency Kleenex.

Then I asked why she didn't tell them she needed scissors, and she replied, "You know I should have. I forgot all about it."

Mom's Adventures in Rehab Part II

                                                                     

(becuo.com)

 
Some people choose a nursing home facility based on the quality of care, while my mom's choice was based on the quality of snacks. This was my mom's third stint in rehab after her five day hospital stay. Her last visit was about two years ago, so we knew the schedule by heart. The old fashioned ice-cream parlor was open every day until 4:00, and on Friday afternoons they served pizza, and had live music. All of the activities took place in their Main Street area which was located next to the beauty shop.

Last Friday, I stopped off at my mom's room to drop off  her laundry before I met her at the beauty parlor. I noticed her roommate was just sitting there looking at the wall, so I asked if she'd like to go listen to the music downstairs. She was eager to leave, but was worried that her husband wouldn't be able to find her. I wheeled her over to the front desk and left word where we were going. Then I checked with her nurse to see if she had any dietary restrictions. After we got the okay, we ran into my mom's dear friends. I invited them to join us on the elevator, so they could surprise my mom. I felt like Dorothy leading her friends down the yellow brick road.

As I escorted the couple inside the beauty shop, I set my mom's roommate near a table, so she could listen to the music. Then I told her I'd be back in a minute to get her something to eat. She decided to also have her hair done in the beauty shop, so I brought her inside with us. She politely offered to wait until the beautician was available.

Though they had shared a room for three weeks, this was the longest conversation her roommate, and I ever had. It may have been the very first time she and my mom had actually spoken to each other. Their room was separated by a tall cabinet and curtain. Since they were both in wheelchairs, their paths only crossed on the way to the bathroom, or coming or going from the room. My mom was in charge of the windows and the air conditioning, while her roommate was in charge of blasting her TV loud enough, so my mom never had to turn on the volume on her set.

As my mom was busy socializing with our close family friends in the beauty shop, my first job was to keep the snacks coming. I brought in slices of pizza and a root beer float for the happy couple to share. My second job was to translate over the noise from the blow dryer, and background music. Meanwhile, her roommate was pleasantly perched on the opposite end of the room.

Suddenly, the mood changed as the hairdresser started whispering to the manicurist. When I asked what was wrong, she pointed to the oxygen tank on the back of the roommate's wheelchair. I didn't think it was a problem, because it wasn't in use. Then both the beautician and the manicurist explained how oxygen tanks and blow dryers do not mix.

After I apologized and offered to remove her from the beauty shop, she asked if my mom would mind taking a break, so she could quickly comb her roommate's hair before we all blew up. I distracted my mom with another slice of pizza, while she worked her magic, and then I whisked her roommate back up to the room. All the while, she couldn't stop thanking me for transporting her to and from the beauty shop. She kindly added, "Your mom is adorable, and she's way too young to have you for a daughter."

Fortunately, everyone made it out of the beauty shop alive. Then I noticed my mom's bangs were in her eyes, and asked why she didn't have the hairdresser trim them. She replied, "Do you think I could trust her to cut one hair on my head?"

My mom asked me to bring her a pair of scissors, but I thought it would be better if she waited a week to go to her favorite beautician close to home. A few days later, I noticed there was something different about my mom. Then it hit me. When I brought her caregiver for a visit, she must have slipped her some contraband scissors, so she could trim her own bangs. I told Mom she would be an ideal prison inmate, and without missing a beat she quipped, "Well, I do look good in orange."

The Indestructible Ocotogenarian

                                                                             

         
                                                                                               

A few months ago, I took my mom  for a pedicure. Though she suffers from hammer toe, bunions, ingrown toenails, corns and calluses, this was nothing compared to what we went through that afternoon.

When we arrived at the beauty shop, I noticed the spa tub was already filled with water. This meant that my mom had to take off her shoes and socks on another chair before we could catapult her into the the spa pedicure chair. After I helped Mom remove her socks, and roll up her pant legs it was time to hoist her up into the next chair. Suddenly, she froze.

I had one hand on my mom's arm, while she was holding on to the walker. She couldn't seem to get her feet to cooperate, and she became wedged in between the walker and the pedicure chair. The manicurist tried to help me scoot her over to the seat, but she became a dead weight. My grandma who weighed one hundred pounds soaking wet, also had the ability to turn her body into lead whenever anyone even thought about lifting her.

Finally, the manicurist called the owner's son over. His job was to lift the walker over our heads, so my mom wouldn't be pinned in. As we both held on to Mom with all of our strength, he managed to get the walker out of the way. Unfortunately, my mom's purse went sliding off into the next tub submerged in water.

He quickly fished out her purse, and the first thing I pulled out was her cell phone. Miraculously, it was still working, but it went dead shortly after I finished drying everything off. In the meantime, my mom remained very calm, and waited patiently for her lunch. When I went to tell him that the phone wasn't working, he was nowhere to be found.

Next, I asked someone to put her empty purse in the dryer for a few minutes. While my mom was having her hair coiffed, her purse mysteriously disappeared from the dryer. I ran frantically all around the beauty shop, until someone finally found it.

After I dropped my mom off at home, I stopped off at a neighborhood cell phone store, to see if there was any possibility of reviving her phone. The only option was to buy a new phone, and even the most basic one would've cost over two hundred dollars, as our plan wouldn't entitle her to an upgrade until the fall.

My hubby even ordered a used phone, but when he called to activate it they told him that the phone would only work with a pre-paid plan. None of this made any sense, as my mom was already covered under our plan. She just needed a basic phone for emergency and long distance calls.

After going back and forth with other cell phone companies, it finally hit me. I remembered that my brother-in-law was the one who recommended our phone carrier, as he thought it had the best out of state reception when our older son was in law school. My husband immediately called his sister-in-law, and she saved the day with an old flip phone that was in perfect condition.

My mom was happy to receive her replacement phone a week later.  She didn't even complain at the beauty shop for the mishap, but was happy when I did. The staff was very apologetic, and quite generous with one of their most loyal, and cherished weekly customers. They even threw in some scented body lotion for her driver.

My mom still goes in every week, even when her arms are writhing in pain from pushing her walker. Heads turn, as women young and old say, "I don't know how she does it. That woman has such a wonderful attitude. She never complains. Despite everything, she's still a breathtaking woman with a beautiful head of hair. Her poor daughter must take after her father."

My Mom The Tantalizer

Could this be me?*

Recently, we were reunited with our cousins on my husband's side of the family. We hadn't seen some of the youngest cousins in a few years, and a cute little eight-year-old boy greeted me with a big hug. At first I was so excited that I immediately told his parents how sweet he was. It wasn't until later that it hit me. I was slowly turning into one of those old ladies that parents told their children to embrace at all costs, or else.

I phoned my mom immediately. Surely she would give me the loving support I needed. "Mom, did you ever get the feeling that you were getting obligatory hugs and kisses from friends and relatives of all ages?  Do men turn away to avoid eye contact while offering their cheeks for you to kiss, and do small children ever give you robotic hugs just to please their parents?"

My mom thought for a moment, and replied, "No." Then she told me how just the other day, two men in her "habitat" were fighting over her in the pool room. It got so bad that administrators had to take away their pool cues, so they were forced to play with empty paper towel rolls. These duels were becoming frequent occurrences, because of her "tantalizing green eyes."

A few days later. I drove my mom to the beauty shop. She gave the shampoo girl strict instructions before she started washing her hair. These instructions included: "I need cotton in both ears. don't mess up the make-up, and be sure not to get my eyebrows wet." Her weekly demands were being recited, as we were tying to hoist my mom up to the sink. Sometimes she uses her walker as a launch pad.

Several hours later when we were finally ready to leave, the shampoo girl gave my mom an unexpected warning. I thought for sure she was going to tell my mom off; instead, she said that she was going to kiss her. My mom politely tried to talk her out of it, but the spell was cast. She planted a big kiss on her cheek, as my mom just smiled at me, and shrugged her shoulders. Needless to say, we drove all the way home in complete silence.


*photo courtesy of blogs.voices.com

Beauty Shop Bullies

For over fifty years, my mom has gone to the beauty shop for a weekly fix.  Most visits include a wash, blow dry, and endless teasing. Unfortunately, as her designated driver much of that teasing is aimed at me.

Recently, I picked her up a few minutes late, and we drove in complete silence. Finally, I told her that a friend called who was falling asleep at the wheel during a long drive. She asked me to keep her company on the phone to prevent her from dozing off. Thus, I ended up leaving ten minutes later relieved to know that my friend made it home safely. I felt satisfied that I would be off the hook until my mom replied, "That's not a good enough reason."

After I helped my mom in with her walker, and replaced her coat with a smock the manicurist gave me the evil eye and said to my mom, "Why didn't you take the bus? You're never late when you come on the senior bus."

Then I noticed one of the "regulars" from across the room. Our friend "Vivian" is a very nice woman in her mid eighties who looks great, and is incredibly sharp. Vivian always has cute photos of her great grandchildren with her, so I thought I would share some pictures of my sons. I could hear the spaghetti western music playing, as we were getting ready to draw our cell phones. Vivian pulled first, and showed me beautiful clear photos on her iPhone, while we had to use a magnifying glass to see the images on my no-frills flip phone. Vivian laughed, and told me that I should get a better phone. She checked her emails, and continued to giggle, as she awaited her hair stylist.

Three hours later, when I was immersed in enough secondhand hairspray to kill a horse, my mom announced she was ready to leave.  While I was helping her with her coat, she saw that a button was loose, and asked her hair stylist if she had a needle and thread. Not only did she find one, but she proceeded to sew the button on my mom's coat, while she was wearing it. If I had the power to knight this saintly woman who is quite a dame I would.

After forty five minutes of saying goodbyes, Vivian came over to apologize for her remarks
about my phone, and all was forgiven. No nails were chipped, no hairs were blown, and Mom made it back home safe and sound: mission accomplished.