| Sunny Side Up Sept10-03 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Satin, Seaweed, and Rooster's Feathers "Mom, I could either pay $10.00 to get my split ends trimmed, or ask you to do it. Which do you think I prefer?" So last week, I cut my son's hair--gratis--and enjoyed every snip. A hair-do is always a good chance for a chat, and now that Anthony doesn't live at home, there's far too few of those. When he was a child, his hair was poker straight, yellow as butter. After a buzz cut, it grew back soft as down. And stood straight up. I loved to run my hand over his head. "My little featherhead," I called him then. That hair is dark and long now. Almost to his shoulders, and wavy. Quite magnificent, really. He has one perfect ringlet that annoys him, above his right ear. It's adorable. (Oh, he's going to hate me for this.) As I cut, I wondered that I could have spawned a creature with so glorious a head of hair. (The Preacher gets the credit, actually. When I met him in the early seventies, his hair was just like Anthony's. Long, wavy. The envy of every girl in the dorm.) Our daughter, Amanda, has hair more like mine. Very straight. It has plenty of body now, but as a child it was thin and fine, sparse even. "Make my hair like Rachel's, Mom," she begged frequently. Her cousin's hair fell almost to her waist, with 'automatic' ringlets. I took her to a fabric store, led her to the bridal satins. "Feel this, honey." "Mommy, it's so soft and shiny!" She ran her hand over the ivory satin admiringly. I crouched down and looked her in the eye. "Sweetheart, I think God was thinking about satin when he made your hair. And not everybody gets satin hair." She took pride in her locks from that day on. But I don't know what God was thinking when he assembled my head. I tell people that I don't really have hair. I have seaweed on a rock. I grew up in a tidal pool on the Pacific Ocean--I know seaweed. It takes a whole shelf of products to make it look like actual hair. I talked to a woman recently who had a close cut. So trim and efficient looking, I coveted it immediately. The day was scorching, and my own head resembled a sea rock after a big wave. So I made an appointment. "I'm getting it short this time," I warned the Preacher on my way out. He shrugged. At the salon I said to my hairdresser, "I'm going for short." "Excellent!" said Jackie. And proceeded to skillfully lop off the seaweed. What I'm surprised to be left with are rooster's feathers. I love them, they're easy, fun, and very cool. The Bible says God knows us so intimately that every hair on our head is numbered. You gotta love a God like that, even if you're bald. You can respond to these words at [email protected] |
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