Hair
Life dealt me a cruel twist of fate.
I hardly knew my grandfather. Probably it was for the best. He was a southern racist of the likes I am not proud. He lived his life out in Shreveport, Louisiana surrounded by the right wing refusing to admit they lost the war. When he died my mother received her share of gold Krugerrands he had sheltered in a safe deposit box. Why gold Krugerrands? Because they were from South Africa and he liked how the white government there kept the black people in their place. I am sure there were many good things about my grandfather but his racism was certainly not among them.
Well, while my mother got the gold coins it was certainly not a kings ransom. She was however, quite happy to cash them in and spend them on something long forgotten. My grandfather's inheritance for me came before his death and it was quite different. I inherited my grandfathers genes. He was a brilliant geologist yet sadly, his scientific intellect did not pass my way. The gift of my grandfather is a body filled with hair and a head void of it. Oh there is still some, enough to tease me and make me remember, but not enough to protect my shiny skin from the sun. I am a man made for the north. A Viking without a ship. Okay, maybe a Viking is stretching it but it soothes my tattered mind.
Every day my son Noah taunts me. It is a cruel taunt. One without words yet complete with meaning. Truth be told, I would love to see his face again. I like to look at a picture of him once and awhile before he modified his image. There was a time I could see his beautiful eyes. When I looked at him I recognized him. I could appreciate the beautiful contrast of his mixed Caucasian and Asian heritage. This was until middle school. My coworker assures me it is a stage. A reflection of hormones gone wild. Of a child wanting to be seen and hide at the same time. When I mock him he points to my Lancelot like blond locks when I was a child. I was a child of hippies for God sake. My explanation falls upon deaf ears. I think he is transforming before my eyes. I commented yesterday how his hair had reached the top of his lip. He argued with me as a teenager does, deflecting parental judgment as if it was a fly hitting a windshield. Then he pushed down his front hair and it indeed touched the top of his lip. In another two months it will discover his chin. Before my vary eyes, he is becoming "It" from the Adams Family. He hates it when I mimic "It," speaking a a stream of high pitched mi-mi-mi sounds.
"The girls like it like this," he says.
"The girls don't remember who you were." I respond.
My only hope is the summer heat. Perhaps when July in South Carolina kicks in and the sweat will be pouring from his matted hair he will beg me for a haircut. Or, maybe not.
Well like an old woman mumbling her way through life, I always have my pictures.
I hardly knew my grandfather. Probably it was for the best. He was a southern racist of the likes I am not proud. He lived his life out in Shreveport, Louisiana surrounded by the right wing refusing to admit they lost the war. When he died my mother received her share of gold Krugerrands he had sheltered in a safe deposit box. Why gold Krugerrands? Because they were from South Africa and he liked how the white government there kept the black people in their place. I am sure there were many good things about my grandfather but his racism was certainly not among them.
Every day my son Noah taunts me. It is a cruel taunt. One without words yet complete with meaning. Truth be told, I would love to see his face again. I like to look at a picture of him once and awhile before he modified his image. There was a time I could see his beautiful eyes. When I looked at him I recognized him. I could appreciate the beautiful contrast of his mixed Caucasian and Asian heritage. This was until middle school. My coworker assures me it is a stage. A reflection of hormones gone wild. Of a child wanting to be seen and hide at the same time. When I mock him he points to my Lancelot like blond locks when I was a child. I was a child of hippies for God sake. My explanation falls upon deaf ears. I think he is transforming before my eyes. I commented yesterday how his hair had reached the top of his lip. He argued with me as a teenager does, deflecting parental judgment as if it was a fly hitting a windshield. Then he pushed down his front hair and it indeed touched the top of his lip. In another two months it will discover his chin. Before my vary eyes, he is becoming "It" from the Adams Family. He hates it when I mimic "It," speaking a a stream of high pitched mi-mi-mi sounds.
"The girls like it like this," he says.
"The girls don't remember who you were." I respond.
My only hope is the summer heat. Perhaps when July in South Carolina kicks in and the sweat will be pouring from his matted hair he will beg me for a haircut. Or, maybe not.
Well like an old woman mumbling her way through life, I always have my pictures.
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