A Sad, Sad Tale of Hair

No, this isn’t going to be another post about how I dyed my ears brown, or how the hair girl down at Great Clips accidentally gave me a mullet…this is even sadder.

Let me give you a little background information in case you haven’t read all my previous blog posts.

First–my mom is fuggin nuts. Certifiable. Thank God that my father and stepmother are the picture of normality, or hard telling how I might have turned out.

Second–my younger sister was killed in a car accident earlier this year. After the accident, she was in a coma for five days before she passed…and naturally, we stayed at her bedside that week. (Which means I spent more time with my mom that week than I ever have as an adult)

Now, on to the sad, sad tale of hair.

By the time we arrived at the hospital following my sister’s acccident (an 8 hour plus drive for me), she had already gone through one surgery to place a shunt in her head to relieve pressure. Naturally, they shaved a small portion  of her head, just around the right temple, to accomplish this. Now, the area shaved was, generously estimating, three inches by three inches. This is important, so remember it.

I don’t have any earthly idea why, but for some reason the hospital saved the hair they shaved from that patch. Even more inexplicably, they offered it to my mother. Recall that she is nuts, and it’s not so inexplicable that she said YES. And so, the second morning we were there she took possession of a sandwich baggy full of shaved hair. Yes, a Ziplock baggy. Not a freezer bag, a sandwich bag. It amounted to a fist sized ball of hair. Why I make such a big deal out of the amount of hair will be clear in a moment.

From that moment forward, that puff of hair became an obsession for Mom.

“Would you like a lock of her hair?” she asked everyone. And I mean EVERYONE. Me, my aunts, uncles, my sister’s friends, my friends, my sister’s father, anyone who showed up at the hospital to offer their thoughts and prayers. Bear in mind, my sister was still alive at this point, which, to me, made the offers of hair even more creepy.

I could ALMOST, though no quite, understand wanting a locket as some sort of strange reminder of a lost loved one–but what on Earth do you do with that? I mean, a lock of a baby’s hair goes in the baby book–that much I know. But what do you do with locks of a grown woman’s hair? Do you have it framed? Do you pull it out for guests, and relay the story of how you came to have it?

EVERYONE politely declined the offers of hair. Several times I had to tell mom to put the shit away and stop talking about it.

As my sister’s prognosis grew grimmer, mom’s hair obsession grew stronger. The clerk at the convenience store got to see it–”I’m here ’cause my daughter’s up in the ICU. I’ve got her hair–see. She always has had the thickest hair!” And out would come the baggie.

We stepped into the hospital cafeteria for a bite to eat. As we walked through the lines, trays in hand, I noticed Mom was clutching the baggie of hair.

“Put that away!! God…that’s gross! You’re gonna get it all over the food” I shouted.

“My hands are full…” she said, glassy eyed as she reached for the salad dressing.

And so the baggy of hair remained in one hand as mom went through the lines, no doubt collecting stares and complaints from the other patrons.

Back at the table, she sat the baggy of hair right between our trays.

“PUT THAT SHIT IN YOUR PURSE!” I barked

“That’s your sister’s hair!” she said, stunned that I might want to enjoy a meal without a ball of fur in front of me.

We left the cafeteria and went back to the waiting room–where my sister’s fiance’s family was waiting to see her. They asked the usual questions–how was she, how were we, what were the doctors saying.

“Would you like a lock of her hair?” Mom said, pulling the familiar baggy from her purse. “They gave this to me”

“Mom…” I said, my nerves now worn well beyond thin by this fixation over the hair. I got a blank stare. I looked to the fiance’s mother…”Would you agree that it is creepy to be carrying that hair around?”

“It really is” the mother said, declining the lock my mother was pulling from the bag. Later that evening, with the doctors telling us that she was stable, I decided to drive back to my home to get caught up on work and get some more clothes. Before I left, you guessed it–there was mom offering me a lock of hair.

“FOR THE 100TH TIME—NO!” I shouted.

“Alright, well let me know if you change your mind”

“Um, I won’t…”

That night saw my sister take a turn for the worse, and so I rushed back the next day. She passed away later that night. Two days later, we were to meet the funeral director at a relative’s house to finalize details for the service.

When we got there, mom pulled out that damned hair again–offering it to whoever would stand still long enough to hear the question. With no takers, I suggested she give it to the funeral director. There was to  be an open casket, and I thought they might need to hair to hide the shaved area of her head.

“We MAY be able to use this” he said.

“Well if you don’t, I’d like to have it back.” mom said.

“FOR WHAT?” I asked.

“Lots of people would like to have a lock of it.” she said. “You, your granny, my brothers and sister…” I was fairly certain that NONE of those people wanted a lock of damned hair, but I just rolled my eyes and let it go.

Sure enough, they didn’t use the hair. I hoped they had lost it. I prayed they had just thrown it away. But no.

They gave it back to mom when we arrived for the family viewing.  While the actual funeral is still a blur to me, I’m confident she was offering locks of hair to all who came.

The next time I was at her house–there sat the baggie of hair on the kitchen table.

“Somebody told me they can make a diamond out of hair.” she said. “Will you get on your computer and find out if they can?”

 

Sure enough, Lifegem will create a diamond from hair, cremated ashes, and God only  knows what else.  It turns out its ridiculously expensive to have them make a diamond for you, so mom was left with the quandry of what to do with that baggie of hair.

“Someone said I could send it to Locks of Love. They make wigs for kids with cancer.”  she said the next time it came up.

“That’s a wonderful idea.” I said, “But I don’t think there’s enough there. You have to have a certain length I believe.”

“Well check on it for me.” she said, “Can you get on your computer?”

I did, and as I suspected, the Locks of Love website not only requires that the hair be ten inches long MINIMUM, they also require that it be in a braid or a ponytail, and are quite clear that shaved, loose hair is unacceptable. I relayed this to mom over the phone a few days later.

“Oh no, they told me down at the hair salon that Locks of Love would take it.”  I was quite certain that no one had said any such thing, or if they had it was because they hadn’t seen the pitiful little puff of hair she was talking about. “I’m getting my hair cut again next month, and I’m gonna take it down there and they’ll send it in for me.”

““Mom, they’re not going to be able to use it, there isn’t enough.”

“They can make a wig for a small child with it.” she insisted.

“No they can’t–look, it’s not enough for a doll!”

“Well, there’s babies that get cancer–maybe they can make a wig for a baby!”

I cracked up laughing. “Mom, all babies are bald!! How on Earth would you keep a wig on a BABY!!”

Weeks later, mom called. “I sent that hair off to Locks of Love.”  

“Oh good” I said, glad that the four month long hair saga seemed to be nearing it’s end.

“I had some of mine cut off to send with it” 

I’d had enough of her fantasy. “Mom…they can’t use your trimmings. They want a 10 inch long braid or ponytail. They’re just gonna have to toss that mess.”

“They said they could use it.” she insisted. I’ve never figured out who “THEY” are–but “THEY” always have Mom’s back when she makes stupid decisions, needs an excuse to be lazy, shirk her duties, or comes up with a hairbrained scheme. (pardon the pun)

Sometime later, she called to say that Locks of Love had sent her a thank you card. She read it to me…an obvious boilerplate Thank You they no doubt send to everyone…that thanked the donor for their “selfless” act.

“I’m gonna have this laminated”  she stated–a sure sign of an item’s importance is whether or not it is shrink wrapped in plastic, “and make you a copy to put with a lock of hair.”

“That would be great.” I said.

“I want you to get on the computer and see if you can find their phone number.” she asked.

“Why?”

“I just want to ask them something. Im going to start sending it to them when I get my hair cut.”

“Mom!” I was exasperated, and again repeated the requirements they have for donations.

“Well what I sent wasn’t that long or braided and they wrote me this thank you note that said how selfless I was and how it had helped a child!” I didn’t know whether to scream in frustration, laugh at her or cry. She thought the form letter was written just for her.

The next time I talked to her, she asked if I’d found that number. I made up an excuse why I hadn’t, and she said, “Well I just want to talk to someone there so they will send me a picture of the child that got the wig from her hair.”

“I’m sure they won’t do that,” I said, “and I imagine it takes hair from a few different people to make a wig.”

For the next month, she would bring up the Thank You letter, apparently forgetting that she had already read it to me. Then, no more mentions of either the hair or the charity.

Until yesterday.

“Locks of Love sent me something that says I can register to win a makeover in the city of my choice! All expenses paid!” 

“That’s great” I said.

“I know I’ll win, I’m gonna send em a letter what I’ll I’ve been through in life and I know they’ll pick me!”

I made an excuse to get off the phone. There’s only so much I can take.

As I said, she’s fuggin nuts.

Jesse Jackson–The Castrater?

Seems like ole Jesse Jackson may be getting a taste of his own medicine. While being interviewed by Fox News, the right reverend Jackson thought his mic was turned off when he admitted he’d like to cut off Barack Obama’s nuts.

Nothing too shocking about that, and its a sentiment I’m sure quite a few people share. (not the least of which is Hillary Clinton) Jackson quickly apologized ahead of the broadcast with some blather about his comments being “a sound bite” that was “taken out of broader context”. It strikes me as sweet irony considering that Jackson has made a life of jumping on sound bites and taking things out of context (though certainly not to discredit any real progress he has made for African Americans), and I would think that wanting to castrate a presidential candidate is a lot worse than calling a group of college women “nappy headed ho’s”.

Just my two cents, and for those interested, here’s the clip:

Remember Jon-Benet Ramsey?

The little girl who, eleven years ago, was found murdered in the basement of her family’s Boulder, Colorado home? The case was headline news in a way that few murders are–especially considering that neither the victim nor the accused were famous before the crime. A young pageant winner, the child of wealthy parents and a former Miss America contestant, Jon-Benet was discovered in her basement on Christmas morning.  Her family has remained under an “umbrella of suspicion” until today.

According to CNN, “Recently developed “touch DNA” technology has cleared all members of JonBenet Ramsey’s family of her slaying.”  The Boulder DA’s office has apologized to the Ramsey family–an apology that came too late for Jon-Benet’s mother, Patsy–who died of cancer a few years ago.

Unfortunately, the DNA does not match anyone in the database–so it is looking as if the person responsible for her death may well have gotten away with murder.

I Was Once Again Honored by “Dlisted”

A few weeks back, I was the winner of Dlisted’s “Caption This Contest“.

Well, I was the runner up in yesterday’s contest–still quite an honor when there are hundreds of witty, funny, and off color “captions” for each contest.

I captioned this photo:

 

The police interrupted the filming of what was destined to be a porn classic: “Fiddle Her on the Roof“

How Trannies Pee

The Girl From the Ghetto blogged about drag queens and pissing the other day–apparently because the search engines send a lot of traffic her way based on those terms. I was reminded of an incident in my own past wherein an elderly drag queen cussed me out and threatened to toss me out of “her bar” for accompanying a female friend of mine into the ladies room at an “alternative” club.  Let me clarify a bit that my friend and I were the only ones in the bathroom, she merely wanted someone to follow her in for “protection”, and so I waited by the sink while she did her business in the stall.

In walked Scoliosis Spice.

“Get out of here!” she shouted. “This is the ladies room!”

I bit my tongue to keep from pointing out that despite her polyester wig and homemade “gown” that she was, herself, not a lady, but instead tried to explain the situation.

“My friend asked me to come with her…” I started.

“That doesn’t matter! Now get out before I throw you out!”

“He’s with me!” my friend shouted from the stall.

“I don’t give a damn! You are not allowed in here! OUT!”

“Who are you to throw anyone out?” I said, a bit annoyed.

“This is MY bar and I call the shots!”

“Well it’s tragic and tired.” I said, “And you have a lot more to worry about here than whether or not a dude is in the ladies room.” The irony of the situation was more than I could handle–I was being yelled at for being in the ladies room by a crossdresser–all while standing in a bar that existed to serve people who did not conform to gender norms. I busted out laughing. “And how do you know I’m not just a butch lesbian?”

“Don’t start your shit with me! If you think it’s so tragic, you can leave!” She pointed her bony finger toward the door. My friend was done with her hand washing at this point, and trying not to laugh.

As we walked out the door, I turned over my shoulder and said, “I wonder if the folks at the Social Security office know about Grandpa’s weekend job?”

The hunchbacked “performer” shouted about what a “F**in asshole” I was and we ran off laughing.

Now, as if that wasn’t enough pissing and drag queens to last me a lifetime, today brought another chapter into my life. I’m working on a new law office, and was in my office today researching codes for the restrooms.

The owner of the company came in, and we started talking about choices for the stall walls. I googled something to the effect of “bathroom stall guidelines”–thinking as I hit enter that I would probably get thousands of Larry Craig related hits before finding what I really wanted. Now, the monitor in my office is HUGE…so the owner of the company was standing behind me, but well able to read the screen.

“How about that one…” he said, pointing to one of the top links. I clicked it to humor him, and was greeted with these words:

“For many trans men, using the men’s room for the first time is a big step in the transition process. This section provides information on using the men’s room safely, as well as on methods and products that can be used to urinate while standing. This includes devices that serve as both a packer and as a stand-to-pee (STP) device.”

That’s right! It was a guide teaching female to male transgendered people how to pee standing up!! I never knew such a thing existed.

“What’s this?” he said, squinting to make out the words. I broke into laughter as his eyes scanned the first few lines. “What the…”

“It’s something about transsexuals!” I laughed.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s going to help us.”  he deadpanned.

Hopefully today’s incident is the last experience I have that involves drag queens and pissing, but ya never know.

(In a shameless effort to win a contest–its now my duty to advise you to go visit MJ here: http://margeauxj.blogspot.com/ )

Will Work for Clicks!

MJ, one of the funny gals on my blogroll, is having a contest.  It’s simple, whoever sends her the most visitors wins and I wanna win!! So, help me by going to visit MJ. The contest ends on July 14th. So, until that date, I will shamelessly attempt to win.

Do your part by visiting http://margeauxj.blogspot.com/

Being a Kid Again

I just returned from a long weekend at home. (Home being where my friends and family are–back in WV). it’s always good to be there. I can relax in a way that’s nearly impossible when I am at my house–where work or household chores usually call to me from another room.

At the same time, a visit home brings it’s own stresses. I rarely see everyone I want to, I rarely feel like I’ve spent enough time with the ones I do see. I end up feeling like I’ve bruised someone’s feelings, and/or have to remind myself that just because I’m on vacation doesn’t mean everyone else is in order not to let my own get bruised. Such was the case this weekend. Mom was “sick” and didn’t feel like company. My grandmother was out and about with other visiting relatives, and our paths couldn’t seem to cross. One friend needed to use the weekend to catch up, another needed to pack–and then leave, for vacation.

But I did get to spend some time with two of my best buddies–the 6 and 9 year old sons of two of my closest friends. For some reason, maybe because I tend to let myself be a big kid whenever I can, kids usually love me. These two in particular view me as their personal entertainment. And this weekend, my time with them taught me a few things, namely:

1. It’s good to let yourself be a kid again. I’ve always known this, but it’s good to have a reminder.

2. Grown ups (me specifically)”look dumb” riding a Razor Scooter. At least that’s what the six year old told me when I tried.

3. Getting high on a swing and then jumping out is best left to the kids. I tried it, landed awkwardly, then went into a head first roll across the playground–it must have looked bad, because everyone just gasped until I started laughing at myself–at which point they broke down and doubled over laughing at me.

4. Likewise, rolling down a grassy hill is best left to kids. Adult stomachs are more easily upset by rapid rolling, and adult skin apparently is more easily irritated by grass, bugs, and whatever else lives on a lawn.

5. Kids take everything literally. The six year old was riding in the backseat of my car with a mutual friend of his mother and I. He was trying to blow a bubble with his gum, but instead shot it out of his mouth. “If you get that stuck on his car, Uncle Villager will flip his wig!” the friend chided. The six year old leaned forward, pulled my hair then stated matter-of-factly. “He’s not wearing a wig!”

Sometimes Being “PC” Goes Too Far…

“TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (AP) - The Florida branch of the NAACP says a bill that would ban students from wearing their pants too low could lead to more legal trouble for black males.

Orlando Senator Gary Siplin’s bill was approved 28-11 last week by the Florida Senate.

The bill calls for no criminal sanctions — but it would prohibit students from wearing pants low so that they expose undergarments.

Violators would receive a warning for a first offense, and suspensions from school would be issued for each subsequent infraction.

NAACP President Adora Obi Nweze called it a “clearly discriminatory bill.”

Other groups such as the Advancement Project, a Washington social advocacy organization, say the proposal is directed primarily at black males and could lead to arrests.

Copyright 2008 Associated Press. All right reserved.”

Now, not to disagree with the NAACP or anything,  but the only people this bill discriminates against is people who go around with their ass hanging out, and last I heard you didn’t have to be black for that. I’ve never understood this look. It’s like you are wearing hand me downs from your fat cousin or something.

 

Fill My Tank–Me Love You Long Time!

I think most of us have been feeling screwed at the gas pumps, but this is taking it a little far:

“FORT WRIGHT, Ky. (AP) - Police in northern Kentucky arrested a woman who officers say traded sex for gasoline.

Police in Fort Wright set up a prostitution sting and said one of the suspects they arrested engaged in sex for a $100 gasoline card and other gifts.

Thirty-four-year-old Angela Eversole of Fort Wright is charged with prostitution and doing business without an occupational license. She pleaded not guilty at a Tuesday arraignment.

Police also arrested a man they said paid Eversole. He is 50-year-old Kenneth Nowak of Avon, Indiana.

Kenton County prosecutor Ken Easterling said it’s sad when people are selling their bodies for gas.

(Copyright 2008 by The Associated Press. All Rights Reserved.)”

I Don’t Think We’re in Kansas Anymore, Toto

Wedding Time. Vacation Time. Family Reunion Time. And, this year at least, take out a home equity line to pay for the gas to do it all time.

Last weekend sent me halfway across the country to a friend’s wedding. In Manhattan, Kansas. Now…tell someone that’s where you’re going for the weekend, and it will go something like this:

“Going to Manhattan for the weekend.”

“Oh, how fun! Did you get any tickets for Broadway?”

“Wrong Manhattan. This one’s in Kansas.”

“Oh…”

Or maybe…

“Going to Kansas for a long weekend.”

“Cannes? Wow! But just for the weekend??”

“Not Cannes…Kansas.” (yes, I know it’s really pronounced “kahn” but here in the south, it’s “cans”)

“Oh…”

Anyway, I’d never been to Kansas, and for a few reasons (you can’t easily fly into Manhattan, and an ill-fitting tux that required an emergency run to a cross-state distributor) I got to see a good bit of it. It reminded me of Little House on the Prairie. Acres and acres of unspoiled land. Not as flat as I imagined, and lacking in trees, but overall some very beautiful country. It was a great wedding, great to see some friends who live far away, and great to share in the bride and groom’s special day.

But that’s not what you want to hear about, so I’ll cut to the good parts.

First, the rental car. A white Mustang coupe. As rental cars go, it was great. But it’s easy to see why American car companies are troubled. The fabric was cheap (and had “Mustang” printed all over it–ugh)…there were gaps between all the cheap plastics, and it drank gas like I drink coffee. But for the Priceline price of $11 per day, I won’t complain…well, too much. The Sirius satellite in the car didn’t work, so I called the rental company to see about having it activated.

The first person had a hard time grasping that this particular car had a BUILT IN satellite radio tuner. She kept trying to get me to tune the radio to 88.5 (which the rental card said was the channel for satellite if you had one of those little portable aftermarket jobbies installed) She finally understood, but couldn’t help, and promised someone would call back who could. They did, two hours later, and left a message that they were “Sending the signal”.

Back in the car a few hours later, it still didn’t work. I called again. Went through the whole schpiel of making them realize that tuning the FM radio to 88.5 wasn’t going to help me at all, and was told to go ahead and put the satellite radio on and wait on the phone as they sent the signal again. Hitting the satellite button gave me nothing but silence. I turned the volume button up, but heard nothing. Then the screen said “updating” and began a countdown to 100 percent. The lady on the phone said, “Hang on with me until we know its working” The update coundown hit 100 and then…

KABOOM!!!

The radio came to life, at FULL VOLUME on a bluegrass channel. I screamed, like Albert in The Birdcage, and nearly dropped the phone. (I’m a little jumpy sometimes). Both of us in the car broke into hysterical laughter, and I’m sure the woman on the phone did too. I stammered out a “Thanks” and hung up.

I’ll end there for now, leaving you to anticipate my tale of Kansas nightlife that is a tale for another time.