By Nancy Brier of nancybrier.com
When it started, it was no bigger than a wad of gum. And it was the same color, like gum that had been pounded flat by shoes on a sidewalk, grayish black and textured by the rough surface of concrete.
By degrees, it grew bigger, knot piled on knot, but Peggy kept it hidden by brushing the top layer of her thick dark hair over it, and since this gum-hair ball was tucked in the back of her head, just at the curve of her neck, my mom didn’t notice. She was busy with her six other children.
An artless pragmatist with scissors, my mom lined up my dad, my siblings and me by turn on the back patio four times a year. Peg’s hair had a tendency to tangle, so her cuts were particularly severe, one of which earned her a tenacious nickname. Prince Valient, our favorite comic book character, had dark hair styled like a box, just like Peg’s “pixie cut.” The resemblance proved irresistible, and sometimes we called her “PV” for short.
Peggy and I watched the hair ball grow. Sometimes we tried to get it out, but Peg would end up screaming as I tugged at that nasty tangle, and of course, she couldn’t see it herself despite the many twirls she did in front of the mirror.
We’d stand there at the double sink in the hallway bathroom, the door shut, patterns of raised gold velvet curlicues on foil wall paper reflected in the glass. I’d hold the gum-hair in place and she’d spin, trying to get a glimpse of it. But it never worked.
Giving up, we’d comb the top layer flat, smooth the surface, and scramble to the kitchen for bowls of cereal before school in our plaid skirts and white blouses just like our other sister. MaryJane was older, and she didn’t know about the gum-hair either.
Every day, the ball grew bigger. When it reached the size of a tangerine, MaryJane spotted it.
“What is that?” she asked, her voice a mixture of horror and respect. She lifted Peg’s top hairs and saw the ball underneath, huge now and beyond repair. Peg squirmed out of MaryJane’s grasp and the two of us raced out the front door, squealing and giggling toward the woods across the street, a massive shaded haven, safe from adults. MaryJane still went there sometimes, but mostly the enchantment of all those paths, rocky creeks, and perfect-fort-building sites had already eluded her.
We were safe until dinner, when streetlights came on and we made our way back up the slimy mud walls of the creek bank, through the briars until we hit the pavement of our midwestern street, the smell of the air changing from the musk of the woods to the tangy freshness of mowed lawns.
“Mom, you should see Peg’s hair,” MaryJane said at the table over the din of forks and knives. We had a shiny round pine table with a lazy susan in the middle which was always laden with meat, potatoes, and canned corn for dinner. My mom usually made biscuits or muffins, too, and sometimes there was strawberry jam from the berry patch in our back yard. “She has the biggest tangle I’ve ever seen.”
After dinner, while MaryJane and I gathered dishes and filled the sink, my mom took a look at Peg’s hair. My three older brothers scattered skillfully, long gone by the time you could smell lemony dishwashing liquid on an overused sponge. Daniel was too young to scatter with the older boys, too young to get stuck scrubbing pans. He wedged in between Peggy and my mom and admired the ball.
“Run and get me a comb,” my mom said to Daniel, moving Peggy into the family room. They sat on the brown naugahyde couch, my mom fingering the ball, pulling hairs out while Peggy yelped. I wanted to watch but MaryJane made me stay in the kitchen with stacks of plates congealed with thick gravy.
“We’re going to have to cut this,” I heard my mom say. Peggy was silent by this time. I think she was done with that ball, that she wanted it out by whatever means necessary. We realized that my mom was the boss, that in spite of ourselves, she was always going to take care of us.
The next trip Daniel made through the kitchen, he was carrying scissors, walking slowly and gripping the sharp points closed in a tight fist the way we had been taught.
I threw down my damp towel just in time to see the last tether snipped, the ball and Peg’s angst falling into my mom’s open palm, her other hand smoothing the suddenly exposed scruff of Peg’s shiny dark hair.
Image credit: Mark Wheadon for Flickr
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About the Author
Nancy Brier writes in Palm Desert, California with her husband and their 12-year-old daughter whose hair is perfect. She writes about family, entrepreneurialism, and travel. For more of her work, please visit www.NancyBrier.com