My Mother's Hair

Saturday is a pivotal day of the week for me. Not because it is the weekend. Not because of the “honey-do” chores. Saturday is pivotal because it is the day my 80 year old mother gets her hair done. At 11 am every Saturday my mother has a standing appointment at Madison Taylor Salon. How well the appointment proceeds will determine the tone not only of my mother’s week, but unfortunately, my week as well.

My mother’s hair is a separate being with its own distinct personality.  If her hair cooperates, exalts in the pampering, and “stays” until her next appointment, life is good. Life is carefree. Beauty abounds. And beauty is very very very important to my mother. Her hair is her crown jewel— the Hope diamond of her looks. If her hair refuses to acquiesce, and rebels against the tease comb and hair product--- and therefore doesn’t “stay,” life is a living hell. For an entire week I hear about it.

There are 3 players who unite to transform the hair into a thing of beauty: the first of course is my mother( that is where the hair resides), the second is the hair itself (equipped with its own thoughts and opinions) and the third and most important player in the mood/hair determiner is Vinny. Vinny is my mother’s hairdresser. Vinny is a slim, polished, taut, talented, temperamental, gay man. Vinny is fabulous.  He is a true artist of his craft. The problem is the only person Vinny feels obligated to answer to is himself. He, and he alone, detemines how on any given Saturday, my mother’s hair is to be coiffed. Input from my mother on color, cut or style is not just unwelcome, it is forbidden. And if Vinny himself is not having what he calls a “creative day” the hair suffers. And if the hair suffers, Vinny is maligned, and my mother’s disposition becomes foul. It’s a trifecta of disaster.   

So. The hair, my mother, and Vinny must toil in seamless syncopation to create the perfect “do.” And the perfect “do” is big--really really big. It swoops. It fans. It cascades upward and it requires so much hairspray my hardwood floors are jealous. The secret service could use it as a protective shield to guard the president. OSHA laws are violated just  so the “do” can “stay”.

So every Saturday it is with trepidation that I ask my mother the following question: How’s your hair? And if she says he was in a mood, it’s not that big, and I am not sure if it is going to “stay”, I know I am in trouble.