I suppose these hair clips qualify as Bow Ties o’ the Day. They present my hairdo. And in other pix you can see the cockatiels Tie o’ the Day I wore when getting my hairs done. In this first photo, you can also gander at my Hearing Aid o’ the Day.
I handed Suzanne my baby bow hair clips and said, “Do what you can with these.” She did. I’d actually wear this ‘do out ‘n’ about– like at the beach or on a walk. But Suzanne and I discovered that whenever I moved, they slipped out of my hair. Yes, my hair is a tiny bit fine. It is extra fine. Not one hair of my hairs has known a thick day in its life. Thinnest. Hairs. Ever. Almost. Suzanne’s are thinner.
I have had some skilled hair cutters throughout my earthly existence, and I thank them for dealing with my uncooperative locks. Dot Atkinson cut my hairs all through my kidhood, then Jim Robson opened up his shop by Curley’s and I sat in his hair chair for a year or so. I ended up having my hairs regularly hacked by Sandy Ferrell– for years before I moved to Maryland and then for years after I returned to Delta. Here in Centerville, my hairs hacker is Tiffany at Great Clips. She has hip tattoos and she appreciates mine. Since I haven’t had my hairs sheared since May, Miss Tiffany might or might not still work there. I hope she still cuts there, cuz I trust her.
Back in the day when I was a wee sprite, every church Ward went to Sunday School on Sunday morning at the same time (and Sacrament Meeting was in the evening). On church mornings our house was aflutter with kids being dragged out of bed to eat breakfast and get bathed and gussied up in church duds. (We had only one bathroom at the time.) I even remember Mom often drying my brother, Ron’s dress socks in the oven, and once she was so harried she forgot about them and they caught fire. Sabbath circus.
What does this have to do with hair? Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t know whether Mom or Dad asked, or if my grandma, Zola Wright (Momo), suggested it, but on Sunday mornings, I was sent next door to my grandparents’ house in my pj’s before putting on my dress for church. Momo or Popo lifted me onto a towel on the kitchen counter, where I laid on my back, with my head over the edge of the kitchen sink. Momo used the sink sprayer to wash my hair. Our house was one fewer person of chaos for Mom and Dad for a few minutes, and I felt loved by the inhabitants of two houses. It was as if my grandparents’ home was just another bunch of rooms in our own house.
Thirty years later, I bought my grandparents’ house, which Suzanne and I had for seventeen years– until we sold it two years ago. That kitchen sink and kitchen counter where Momo washed my kid hair were still there when it became mine. They were in atrocious shape, and I should have replaced them.
But I never did. Not even when I remodeled the kitchen. I couldn’t. They were daily reminders of how much I belonged to Momo and Popo–especially with my dirty hair on Sunday mornings. As a growing kid, I was devastated when I grew too big for their kitchen counter. Even my stubborn, thin hairs were sad. And after I sold the house and walked through its rooms one last time before driving away in my red truck forever, it was that decrepit sink that broke my heart.
