She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother Read Online Free PDF Page A

Her father, who had unfortunately gone to his reward long before I was born, on no account ever raised his voice, much less cussed. Never. Ever. Ever. “You must do as I say, doodlebug, and not as he does. Learn to control your mind, your tongue, and various other parts of your anatomy, and you’ll grow up to be a fine young gentleman, like your papa,” she reminded me. Those conversations never did much to curb my cussing, and I still think the occasional expletive would have done my mother good. But it’s possible her rosebud of a mouth was simply not capable of forming, much less verbalizing, the necessary sequence of consonants and vowels. Besides, if she did use such language, there probably wouldn’t be enough concealer to hide the cracks.
    S OON OUR BEIGE station wagon screeched into the manicured parking area of the Hair-etage’s sky-blue Victorian cottage. The scent of Confederate jasmine that enveloped every balustrade of the filigreed wrought-iron entrance stairway, coupled with the potted gardenia topiaries, topped by my mother’s overpowering perfume, made the air dizzying, and I was forced to hold her hand not just for parental assurance, but for sheer physical support.
    Upon entry, Mother was escorted away by salon minions to be shampooed, conditioned, and rinsed while I was fawned over, patted on the head, and seated in an armchair that was obviously a reproduction, along with many
Highlights, Vogue
, and
Modern Salon
magazines. All of these were entertaining, but soon I felt the instinctualdesire to explore, and later was discovered with perm rods up my nose, imitating the walruses we had recently witnessed in the Audubon Zoo. Unlike the respective floral and spice smells of my mother and father’s toiletries, I preferred the strident chemical smells of perm solution, turpentine, or, better yet, the pungent and exotic aroma of gasoline. When confronted with a look that seemed to say,
Silly monkey, what are you into now?
I had no response but to pull the perm rods out of my nostrils and stammer, “Mom, you look beautiful.” To which the room of ladies collectively released an adoring sigh, all except the shampoo wench, Miss Amber, who had just about had it with my antics all afternoon. Mom did look stunning, though, even if she was my mom. Her raven hair was piled high, the swirls punctuated with baby pink sweetheart roses, and cascading down the left side of her neck was a cluster of sausage curls. It was the perfect marriage of antebellum and Vidal Sassoon. As she was seated to have her makeup retouched for the evening, Mr. Philippe swaggered in and made a musky appearance in the doorway. He was the model on which Warren Beatty must have based his character for
Shampoo
. He stood six foot two, with longish shaggy brown tresses, piercing blue eyes, tight, bell-bottomed, lace-up-crotched suede jeans, and open-shirted hairy chest. He was the antithesis of every woman’s husband in the room. They all secretly lusted for him. He knew it, and worked it. After circling around me at least three or four times, messing and tossing my bangs, his deep voice rasped, “So this is Mr. Bryan. How are you, little man? Fab hair.” He stopped dead in his tracks andstarted to shake his mane. “Oh, Gayle baby, I can’t do it, please don’t make me, I can’t cut it, you’ve just got to let it grow, grow, grow. If he were mine, this thick hair would graze his shoulder at the least.” He bent down and fixed me with a knowing stare. “You’d dig that, little man, wouldn’t you?”
    Before I could utter a single syllable of agreement, Mom chimed in, “Oh … uh … Philippe, baby, if it were up to me, I’d say … of course … far out … let it all hang … out.”
    Who was this flower-adorned impostor pretending to be my mother? She babbled on, “Philippe … baby … you know me … I’m … hip … hep … cool, but Johnny would never allow it. He’s kind of … you know … square.” Her index fingers