Hair Stories Part Six

Ryen wrote about his rainbow of hair colors during his college days. Ryen, did you do that between visits to Fargo? I only remember the cranberry and tell tale grow outs. I did see you in hot pink but I thought it was a wig. Oops.



Rachel writes answers in her blog today about her extensions. I was reading out loud to my sweet Thomas about how she had lost some of the hair and would have that reattached; as a bald on top guy, he wished he could do that.



I have another story for you. Do you remember what the curlers looked like that Julia used? Well, she gave me some. I took them home and one Friday night, I washed my hair and set it in Grandma style . Keep in mind that five rollers went a long way for her and if she needed five then I needed ten positioned randomly throughout my thick strong, straight hair.



I did not, in my youth, know how to set my hair nor did I understand the consquences of not carefully tucking in the ends. I would learn this much later from a guy who went to beauty school.



After a little labor and ten curlers in, I credited myself for the first time I had done my own hair! Morning came and Mother called me for breakfast. I took out the curlers and sort of fluffed it up like grandma did. But there was something really wrong! Instead of cute little bumps combed out to a fluffy look, I had chunky bumps with what looked like little pieces of barbs from wire with-a-go-where-I-want-to-go look. It was pretty bad. There wasn't anything I could do about it except come downstairs.



Daddy was sitting at the dining room table eating his breakfast as I descended. He choked on his eggs because he was laughing so hard. I turned on a dime and ran up the stairs. I knew how bad it looked but I never expected him to laugh at me. I thought my new do would be invisible to him.



Mother hollered, "STAN" from the kitchen. That meant he needed to hush.



He hollered up the stairs, "I'm sorry, Poke, I promise I won't laugh". Once again I came down stairs and once again he giggled. And, once again I stomped up the stair way.



Mother came to the stairs next. She said Daddy would eat in the kitchen. "Come down, she said, your breakfast is getting cold".



I was pretty choked up as I sat at the table eating breakfast and listening to Daddy snicker in the kitchen.



I can not go back and find the anger nor can I find how hurt I was. What I can do, is find the humor in it. I can now giggle about it. The beauty of it is I can hear Daddy's giggle, as well.



Wishing you memories of laughter and great rejoicing



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