I clearly remember me as a kid standing half naked on a cold metal chair, bent over the kitchen sink, washing my hair. The glass hourglass-shaped bottle of green Prell with the plastic pearl dropped in it – to prove how thick and luxurious it was – in my hand. A palm-full made good suds, and I worked up that lather until it was as lush as a cartoon cloud, all the while wiping around my eyes – you know how those suds sting – then I started my parade of hairdos.
First, the pylon point straight up in the air, I was the Bride of Frankenstein. Then I’d split it in half and guess who I am, ma?! I was Bozo the clown, of course. Then I’d pull the points down and make dog ears – that one was easy, and then Swedish buns on each side (this was long before Princess Laeh was around). For my grand finale I’d coil up my bodacious bouffant into an impressive Diary Queen swirl. My meringue beehive was the Everest of dos and I felt like a princess. I’d start all over again, mix them up for fun, and when my mom finally got tired of guessing who I was with my vague clues, I’d grab the sink hose with the black nozzle and transform myself into a little girl again.
My ma is gone now and I can’t ask her to guess who I am. I haven’t washed my hair in the sink for years, and Prell isn’t the same anymore either. I still have heaps of imagination, but often it makes me melancholy after I rinse my head of it. Sometimes I wonder where things have gone; the joy and anticipation of holidays, looking forward to events and outings, my enthusiasm, my fearlessness, my childlike hope, my endless string of dreams. I seemed more alive then, my mom and dad were alive – many of the things I’ve lost were still alive. Some say it’s not wise to live in the past, but I did live in the past. Others say it’s not wise to live in the future, but I’d like to live in the future. I remember times as a kid when I could barely get to sleep at night for all my excitement, now I can barely get out of bed some days for my lack of it. It’s impossible to pinpoint the time it all began to dissolve for me, but when it started, it was like sprinkling salt on suds – it vanished before I knew it and it’s impossible to redo it. Perhaps this will be one of the scenes that flashes before my eyes at the end; my hands in soft, warm suds, my hair piled up into billows before I hit the clouds, the white edge of the sink the brink of eternity, and my ma waiting for me in Heaven’s kitchen ready to guess who I am.
