Scissors. Pink tape. Lucky Strikes. Mom placed the first two items on the boomerang-patterned kitchen tabletop and leaned back in one of its glittery vinyl-and-chrome chairs. She thumped the pack of cigarettes on the edge of the table a few times and propped the first escapee between her lips. I struggled with her lighter for a hint of teamwork despite its obstinate stance. Once a blazing yellow soldier stood at attention and fulfilled its duty, Mom leisurely drew smoke into her lungs, rested her feet on the table, and relaxed into the moment. I knew to wait.
            Ponderous trails of smoke eased their way from Mom’s nostrils, moseying aimlessly in a slow breeze created by the fan on top of the turquoise fridge. Across the room, the percolator’s spirited refrain and seductive aroma lubricated her interest in the day. It was 10 am.
            Mornings were my favorite time, especially the weekend kind. Actually, any day I could wake up and say there’s no school today was like Neapolitan ice cream, Bugles, and flying on a plane all in one.
            “The Carlisle Beauty Salon is open,” Mom smoldered in her gravelly low pitch. Our ad hoc Saturday home beauty treatments were marvelously cosmopolitan: Hot chocolate heated on the O’Keefe & Merritt range, assorted donuts displayed like dominoes for a ravenous toppling, and twin terrycloth robes with our names embroidered on the lapels to wrap us in luxury. The first hour was for relaxing, cartoons, and pigging out.
            As we flirted with sugar comas, Mom guzzled a half pot of Folgers coffee and I a quart of cold milk—after the usual pinching-pulling struggle to open its waxed paperboard carton. Soon Warner Brothers announced, “Th-a Th-a Th-a That’s All Folks,” and it was down to business.
            Monday was school picture day, which meant Saturday commenced a fuss over my hair and clothes. We borrowed the tall rectangular mirror from my closet door and leaned it against the chair opposite mine at the kitchen table in preparation for my improved coiffure. Mom’s grey eyes twinkled as she studied the comb’s effects on my hair. The glowing butt of her third cigarette danced in rhythm with her words. “Hold still,” she repeated often. With the calm and focus of a hunter whose prey was in her sites, she gave a swift yank on the pink-tape dispenser, a rip, and a carefree smile to indicate her confidence in the next step. Zigzag-edged hair-styling magic dangled from her fingers – 3M’s contribution to home hair salons.
            Mom pressed the tape gently against my bangs. Her scissors merely had to follow the line, stay on track like a train. A few snip-snips later and Ohhh she’d groan with protraction, indicating that the tape required a slight relocation—a bit north to true up the line. More often than not, the goal of a superb seven-year-old hairdo and our home salon results were at odds.
            I envied my mother’s hair with its natural auburn curls. Mine was thin, brown, and straight—forever in need of an orchestral coaxing to even hint at a wave. But Mom was never daunted. Foamy pink curlers and bobby pins over spit curls came to the rescue. Soon I’d be en vogue and ready to go.
            While we waited for my hair to set, we danced to my favorite 45s—The Monkees’ “I’m A Believer” and The Turtles’ “Happy Together.” It didn’t take long for Mom to be out of breath. She cupped her hands around another flame to fuel further focus. At this point, I’d lost count.
            I do recall, though, that she never smoked Virginia Slims. “They imply that work is preferable to mothering. They’re wrong,” she’d say. “I choose you.” She fantasized about the Marlboro man, but smoked her brand because she fancied the good fortune in its name.
            I sat again for my hairdo’s unveiling. “Ouch!” I snarked. Without preamble, Mom had swiftly removed the tape, uprooting untold hairs that clung to the sticky pink gizmo’s promise of perfection. As I bid adieu to those stragglers, along with the rollers and bobby pins, I realized that fashion was a fickle friend—one who advances her agenda through much flinching and toil, obliges her followers to trust in others’ opinions, and ultimately forces us to surrender to the process. 
            “I’m sorry, sweetie. How ‘bout we show off your beautiful new do at Mac’s Diner and go shopping for a new dress?”

______

            In that year’s second grade school picture, I was fourth from the right on the front row—one of twenty-two kids, all with eager eyes and toothless grins, and many with bangs that teetered above barren landscapes of forehead. 

About the Author

Meneese Wall is a writer and graphic artist. Her work is inspired by the public, private, and often secret lives of real people. Meneese lives in Santa Fe, NM with her husband and daughter.