She shook and rolled, undulating her hips, and shimmied within inches of his reddening face. She jiggled her huge tits at him and said, “Do these look ready for the home to YOU?”
He emitted a strangled-sounding squeak, like a bird asphyxiated by a boa. Needless to say, she managed to banish the nursing-home idea from her husband’s mind, and when and if the time comes, she’ll move in with one of her kinfolks. Probably her cute son-in-law.
When she called me that night all in hysterics, I had no idea what had happened to bring about such a frenzy of distress. I wondered if the nursing-home issue had returned so I called her back in a hurry, figuring something of a husband-in-the-doghouse nature had occurred. Either that or someone had keeled over. This phone call must be pretty serious from the tone of her screech.
“Hon,” she began in a wobbling soprano, “we couldn’t even read your column we were so shocked by your…your…Oh, God help us all!”
“My what? You were shocked by my what, Aunt Betty?”
“Who do you think you are? Oprah freakin’ Winfrey?”
“What????”
“Your hair. What in God’s sweet name have you gone and done to it?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Hair? “What are you talking about, Aunt Betty?”
“Honey, are you in trouble with your hormones? I mean, we all get crazy after 40 but what the hell have you done to yourself? You look just like Oprah.”
What? This phone call was about my hair! I loved Oprah’s fluffy, chickadee, duck-feather hairdo. I wanted some Oprah hair and a stylist gave it to me.
“You can’t just go around looking like Oprah, Susan.”
“And why not?”
“Because you’re white.”
“Only on the outside. I have a chocolate center.” It’s best to deal with Aunt Betty the way she deals with others. I would go to the mat with her on this issue.
“I cut my hair. Big deal. It feels good and I’ve gotten so many compliments and a free subscription to O magazine, featuring Oprah on each and every cover.”
More silence, followed by the clink of ice and the gurgle of Aunt Betty’s gin and vermouth mixing within her second or third martini. After a few sips, she spoke. “Compliments? From who? The blind? You were so beautiful BEFORE. Why? Just why, my sweet niece, would you make yourself look ugly on purpose?”
It had been a hellishly rough week of defending my new hairdo to readers of my local column. They don’t want change. That’s why Dear Abby never got an updated look. It’s why Erma Bombeck kept her same picture, and I know that for a fact because her very own daughter told me during a writers’ conference. Not that I’m anywhere near Abby and Erma’s league, but for a local columnist, people don’t want the switcheroo hairdo.
“Well?” Aunt Betty asked. “What the hell prompted you to go and do a thing like that for?”
“I had to cut it. Lice and stuff,” I lied. “After Stuart discovered a vole and four volettes or whatever their spawn’s called using the back of my head as their nesting grounds and source of nutrition, we decided the day had dawned. Time for the hedge clippers.”
I couldn’t stop yammering. “Four women also called and left messages saying my short Oprah hair made me look younger.”
She snorted and harrumphed. “You know your Aunt Betty loves you, but you are going to need a new picture. This one is unacceptable.”
“I’m not getting one. Stuart and I like to laugh at this one. We have a sense of humor. If you don’t stop talking about my hair I’m calling the salesman from ‘The Home,’ if you get my drift. I love ya, Aunt Betty, but it’s my head.”
I hung up and called Mama. “Your big sister is having a conniption over my hair, saying I’m trying to look like Oprah and it is a big mistake because I’m white.”
“Who cares what color you are? Oprah is beautiful. Count your blessings.”
What I’ve counted instead is the number of evil e-mails readers have sent. Why, you’d think I was part of that castration ring down in the western part of our state. The readers were livid and as opinionated and outraged about my hair change as if discussing abortion, politics or religion.
It’s just hair, people. Hair!!!! A few have all but poured gasoline on my head and flicked their Bics when it comes to this new picture. No one likes it but dear and precious older ladies and fellows with cataracts. I’ve even had a death threat. It’s a shame when a professional writer’s hair becomes more important than what she is trying to convey in print. Why can’t they just look past the hairdo and read about the goat that gave birth to triplets against all odds? Why can’t they find interest in the 112-year-old who had her first pedicure and a lengthy French kiss during Bingo night? These are important events, much more so than a new hairdo is.
Think about it. There are children with cancer needing cures and financial help. Abused women in need of safe shelters and people with all sorts of horrible problems and afflictions, and here people are worried over a dumb little hairdo.
But that’s how it goes. People have called and cussed me out, screamed that they can no longer read my words until I cover up—as one precious reader put it—“that electrocuted groundhog atop your head.”
The icing on the bitter cake arrived via the United States Postal Service from a man who lives in one of those supposedly “peaceful” mountain communities where they chant and enjoy sun salutations and soynuts.
I am printing a portion of his letter, to let you know that after reading his threats, I removed my photo from the column and used an assortment of photographic aliases, such as the Britney Spears mug, and those of Catherine Zeta-Jones, Julia Roberts and other beauties. It was a fun week, but finally the editors made me go back to my ugly old picture.
In all fairness, the letter writer issuing death threats had a few nice things to say about my work before he started in with his word machete, hatcheting his way through a girl’s heart and hairdo.
“I’m 64,” he wrote, “and have a bachelor’s degree in journalism, advertising and twenty-five years as a commercial photographer. My reason for writing is that I hate your new photograph.”
Well, darlin’, you aren’t alone. Call my Aunt Betty, if you want.
“The old one was much better, and the current one makes you look older and somewhat evil. Your photographer and hairdresser both need to be taken out behind some remote barn and quietly put to death.”
Whoa. Those are some strong thoughts on something as minor as a hairdo.
“Your picture looks like a happy prison photograph,” he continued. “I wouldn’t be so critical if I didn’t have some professional advice. So here goes:
“Hairdo: Get yourself a ‘boy cut.’ Ditch the pointy head and cut about five inches off the side flips. Curl the remaining hair forward softly, around your maxillary muscles, and comb your top hair into soft bangs.
“Makeup: Starting with your base foundation shade, let’s call it plus or minus 1 or 2. Eyeshadow—plus 2. Bridge of nose—minus 2. Nasal wings—minus 1.”
I had no idea what a nasal wing was, but, glory be to Vidal Sassoon, this man seemed to know a lot about the human body. It’s good to know I have nasal wings in case I fall out of a building one day and forget my parachute.
He went on to add more of his professional advice:
“You need slightly more dramatic lighting. A 3:1 contrast ratio would be good. Tell your photo editor to ditch the shoulder fade. Next photo shoot (which
I hope will be soon), chin up about 15 degrees; turn your head 20 degrees to your right, but look directly into the lens. Think about a puppy or a slab of prime rib.”
I suspect this man needs a hobby. But if he cares to take a new picture, I’ll let him have a go. As long as he leaves his guns at home.
His name, by the way, is Dick.
“Your name suits you,” I e-mailed him back, certain my editors would fire me.
After Dick had his say, a woman I’ll call Eunice had hers in what I’ve come to call Nasty-grams, those e-mails that all but shoot flames. I decided after reading her missive I’d e-mail her right back, even if it meant my editor would march my ass up to HR—HUMAN RESOURCES—that scary place where no one in corporate America cares to go. There is a rumor that once you go to HR, you’re never seen again without a set of cardboard boxes with which to remove a year’s worth of service and slavery.
Dear Eunice:
Hi there. I just received your sweet letter and have taken your suggestion to heart. And scalp. It is always refreshing when a woman reads a note letting her know that her hair is an abomination to world peace and aesthetics.
Here’s the line from Eunice I especially enjoyed:
May I suggest you get yourself to the hairdresser for a really good haircut and up-to-date hairstyle? You’re uglier than a four-headed pig.
My fingers began typing faster than Mozart could work his ivories.
Well, here’s to looking at you, dear Eunice. You were quick to point out that I’m not a teenager anymore, and I couldn’t agree with you more. My abdominal overhang tells me every morning that the days of low-rise jeans and crop tops have ended.
In addition, another hats off to your astute observation of my age. Due to your penned assessment, here’s my new photo and trendy hairstyle. (This was the day we ran the Heather Locklear photo instead of mine.)
Bless you, woman, for bringing the matter to my attention.
And to the sixty or seventy others who had an opinion on my new hairdo, here are half a dozen good reasons why some women, including me, don’t get to the salon as often as others wish they would, plus why some 35-and-ups continue to wear their hair long:
We have children, a job, a house to clean, a dog that tinkles on the floor and a husband who needs attention to his jibblybob.
Time is of the essence and money is tighter than a tubby man’s wedding band.
Long hair is especially good when a woman—of any age—has a set of ears that rival the pair on Anna Nicole Smith’s dearly departed husband. Ever see the flappers on that poor man? They rose from his jawline to the top of his head. Looked like a pair of Magic Johnson’s loafers.
Long hair provides excellent cover for midlife acne. It also makes comfortable bedding for an assortment of insects that otherwise might be homeless and vulnerable to the elements.
Some of us are afraid of the shrink-wrap look, avoiding as long as possible the two prominent ’dos of midlife: the cropped-head poodle fur and the brown helmets.
Long hair, particularly when teeming with live insects, is a good detractor for other physical flaws such as a hefty ass or thighs the size of a baby Sequoia.
In closing, I’d like to add a few suggestions for those who need hobbies besides critiquing the hairdos or physical appearances of others:
Donate time to a children’s or battered women’s shelter.
Deliver a few Meals on Wheels. Preferably on foot or by burrow.
Give blood at the local Red Cross. Lots and lots of it. All of it, if possible.
Go out and clean the communities and highways, hook up with some inmates and tell THEM what you think of their hair and see how long you have a heartbeat.
Visit a local nursing home and ask the staff how you can be of utmost assistance. Perhaps, by donating your own hair or a kidney, cornea or lung, or scooping out the crud in the bedpans, you’ll have a new attitude.
I know that sounds mean. But you just don’t mess with a woman’s hair. It’s in the Bible, or should be. Proverbs 121, Verse 55: “He or She who is fool enough to ridicule another’s follicles, shall arise with nothing on his or her head but scabies.”
The Gambrells in Europe: A Four-Act Comedy
Spain
E very year, sometimes twice if the price is right, my parents pack up and go to Europe. They feel they’ve earned it, especially after raising two daughters who nearly did them in with their romances and bust-ups and wild, heathen ways.
We all wondered if they’d keep their appointment with Spain and the French Riviera scheduled just two months after the 9/11 attacks, when a lot of people were afraid to fly, but Mama and Daddy said if the Lord was ready to take them, so be it.
They also go to altar call more frequently than most, and I accused them of doing this so they could finally stretch their legs, but Mama says it’s because she feels the presence of the Lord urging her forward.
“Sometimes our young preacher looks so pitiful, Susan, when he begs for the sinners to come down and no one answers his pleas,” Mama said, explaining her constant trips down the aisle to redemption. “After singing the same stanza over and over, your daddy and I just go on down. I guess people think we lead double lives we’re at that altar so much. Probably think I’m a floozy on the side.”
The other night she called to tell me that the Spain trip was definitely a go, but that Daddy was having fits about her packing job.
“I know the trip is two months away, but I went ahead and started getting things together, Susan. It’s no different than that friend of yours who cooks her Thanksgiving turkey and dressing in January and freezes the thing for ten months. I don’t think he’s over that time we went to England. He’s never let me forget it.”
England was Mama’s first trip abroad. She was going for a week and packed four large bags (this was before airlines had a limit) and stuffed them with curling irons, jewelry, shoes and enough clothes for the four seasons including any variation in between. She also worried about the food over there, thinking her system would just lock up, sort of like an engine does when low on oil, unless she packed an assortment of dried fruits like raisins and prunes, along with KitKats, her favorite candy bar that she swears no one ever has when she really needs one. Like when I was giving birth and she brought her own 10-pack into the delivery room.
My father on the other hand, packs like Mr. Bean, the super-geek from the British TV show by the same name. He carries only one small bag, the kind you can place overhead in the plane. Inside are one pair of drawers, maybe two, a pair of pants, a single shoe for each foot, and a couple of hankies. Who needs more?
“There’s always a sink and soap,” he said, “and I can turn my drawers inside out. Lots of times I don’t even get tinkle on them so there’s no point in carrying around a whole bunch unless you got bladder problems and my prostate’s fine.”
He takes it to the extreme, but not as far as my friend Tracy’s husband used to go. He was a true Englishman, and whenever they traveled, he took only clothes with holes or tears, or those destined for the Goodwill.
“That way he doesn’t have to bring anything back,” Tracy said. “He throws them in the garbage can or hangs them on someone’s door and runs away. I was so embarrassed one night while dining at the Captain’s table and I looked over and Elliott had giant moth holes in his wool suit and ink stains on his tie.”
Daddy was almost that bad. Last Sunday as he sat in chu
rch and tried to focus on holiness and the narrow road to the Pearly gates, he just couldn’t help himself. Instead of seeing disciples and Jesus, he kept thinking of his upcoming seventeen-day riverboat cruise, and in his head he visualized with a shudder the sights witnessed the previous day: Mama rushing around the house, cramming everything but the toaster and two cats into her multiple suitcase sets.
And that was for a three-day business trip. How in the world would he guide her as she packed for this lengthy upcoming excursion? As he pondered this, the choir lifted its voices unto the Lord and my dad lifted his eyes unto his church bulletin and began writing notes in the blank spots, as if he was a schoolboy with too much to say and in the wrong place to say it.
The contents of those church scrawlings were enough to set my mom’s burners on high.
She whipped out her kitty-cat stationery that night and wrote me a letter, explaining her predicament about how hard it is to travel with Daddy.
Writing small enough to fit an entire incident on two pages, she said in her letter:
Your dad and I are at it again. You know we’re planning another trip to Europe, which takes more than the six or eight minutes he’s willing to give it. “Well I was enjoying the choir singing Sunday morning and he leans over with a note that says, “Check me out, Peg. See this getup? What I have on is what I’m packing for the cruise. I will wear this same outfit for both of the dressy nights.”
Don't Sleep With a Bubba Page 31