The Beauty Shop

I took my mom to have her hair done on Saturday. There is nothing quite like a "beauty shop". Movie mags and gossip rags are everywhere. Brightly colored rollers lay atop tables and carts. The air is redolent with the smell of permanent solution.

This is not a "salon". The customers have done the same thing every Saturday morning for 40 years. There are an assortment of walkers along one wall and the staff takes exceedingly tender care with clientele. God bless these women who pamper women like my mother with a gentle wash and set while gossiping about shared acquaintances before gently placing them under the dryer to read about Brad and Angelina and shout at one another.

It was so very reminiscent of my childhood! It made me long for a cold grape soda in a glass bottle. Back then, the stories in the magazines were about Liz and Richard and the ladies' hair was much darker. The gossip was whispered and far juicier. A Saturday morning spent at the beauty shop was an inside look at womanhood. There were glamorous women there who had their hair colored and their nails done. There were women like my mom, hoping to look good for most of the week. (I never remember my mom painting her nails or having them done, but there was always Cutex nail polish around the house, so she must have done them herself.) There were the hair dressers (not stylists)with curlers in their own hair, waiting on a moment when another could comb them out. They wore make-up and smoked and laughed about going out on Saturday night, things I knew nothing of.

My mom knew little of make-up and styling of hair. She had my hair cut short when I was small to keep from having to deal with rolling it, braiding it, and all of the other things you do to little girls' hair. No bows or ribbons for me...a pixie cut was my destiny. My parents would occasionally step out on a Saturday night when I was the only child. My aunt and uncle and some friends would join them and share the baby sitting services of my older cousins. But some couples moved away, some marriages crumbled, and my sister came along and Saturday night became family night.

But Saturday was the day that Mom ran errands and did a little something for herself. And sometimes I got to come along.

Father's Day Memories

Those who know me, know I have placed my father on a very tall pedestal, and I know of nothing in my life he has done to be knocked off. So I wanted to share a few of the memories that are part of the reason he resides in such high altitudes.

Before my sister was born, my parents had a schedule. My mom rode to work in the mornings with some friends and Dad would drop me off at the babysitters (my grandmother and childless aunt). He would pick me up each evening. These short trips were full of wonderful, childish conversation, knock-knock jokes, and songs. When we arrived home each evening, Mom would be preparing dinner. After dinner, Dad would bathe me and get me ready for bed while Mom cleaned the kitchen. Both parents took turns reading to me before bed. Saturdays, Dad and I would curl up in the den to watch cartoons.

During my school years, Dad would sit to hear me read about Dick, Jane, and Sally or help me with my spelling, or my math. And he loved the history. Each evening while Mom did Mom stuff in the kitchen, I would sit on the back of the couch, legs draped over each of his shoulders, and comb his hair while outlining my day. He taught me how to ride a bike and to drive a car and shoot a rifle. He refereed during those horrible teen years when Mom and I couldn't look at each other without either shouting or crying. My Dad always told me he would never judge me as long as he knew I was doing the best I could.

When his older brothers and sisters needed help, he helped. He lent money, gave them places to stay, helped them move, lent them cars. When my cousins were in trouble, they called him instead of their own parents. When my mother's sister's husband had a stroke, my dad would spend nights at the hospital with him so my aunt could rest. When Mom's other sister's husband had DTs and had to be admitted into rehab, my dad took him. When his brother's widow needed medical attention and could not be left to live alone, she came to live with us.

Over the years, my dad has become quite an expert and funeral arrangements. He has helped to plan the funerals of my grandmother, two aunts, and four uncles.

He is physically strong, stronger than men half his age. And emotionally. He is the rock in my life, and the saviour in my mother's life. He is her life these days. He fixes her hair when he has too, helps her bathe and helps her dress, takes her shopping and makes her exercise. He cooks...something he has never wanted to do nor enjoyed. He cleans. He mops and vacuums. He tends his yard and his garden.

And he loves us. So much. He gives great hugs. And even as I approach the half century mark, he is my Daddy!