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

tracing the shape in midair, she continued. “He likes his boys to look like boys, and no confusion. Dig? So please, honey … baby, for me, give him a boy’s regular number three, and slick it to the side. And Bryan, please sit still.”
    He complied reluctantly, trimming, cutting, and edging so that my white-walled ears as well as my previously hidden eyes would be completely visible, finishing off the process with pomade and All-Set spray against his will and better judgment. He was a firm believer that the wet head was dead, long live the dry look, but not in this case. Looking in the mirror, I saw my shiny black hair severely parted on the side and plastered down, set and sprayed into a Baby Hitler look. Why couldn’t I have cool hair and long sideburns like Mr. Philippe? But suddenly we were out of the salon, in the station wagon, and racing to theriver’s bend. Over the years Mom would have many different hairdressers; it was the one relationship that she had serious trouble with, all her life.
    The Camellia Grill is the last of the countertop service diners in the Big Easy. Its daily specials, like slow-cooked red beans and rice with sausage or pork chops (traditionally served only on Mondays), are enjoyed by multitudes of locals and Tulane students, as are the fluffiest of omelettes whipped to soufflé perfection in blenders, the Camellia’s perfect hamburgers, and my favorite: icy chocolate freezes. But the main attraction is the white-coated waiters and their grand presentation of drinking straws. With magician-like agility, half of the protective paper wrapping is sheathed away, and the red striped end is presented with a ceremonious flourish to the enraptured customer.
    While devouring what would have to suffice for supper, but not as elegantly and as “pinkies up” as Mother dined, I kept asking her why she suddenly changed the way she spoke and acted when Mr. Philippe winced at the thought of cutting my hair.
    “Dawlin’,” she said, “it’s not really white lies at all, no sirree, it’s like playacting, sometimes you have to pretend a little and tell people what they want to hear in order to get what you need or want. I know that must sound crazy, but it’s true, and it works. If it doesn’t, it sometimes helps to play dumb. Just look at how handsome you look with that perfect young gentleman’s haircut that both your daddy and I adore, if I didn’t quickly say something in a way that Mr. Philippe would appreciate, we might still be at his shop fretting over every last hair on yourprecious little coconut head and not enjoying these tasty treats.”
    That said, she picked up the crispiest French fry and bit it, smiled, and winked. Her unconventional methods strangely made sense, and in the future I, too, would sometimes call on these wiles to escape and avoid a sticky or possibly confrontational situation. Neither of us seemed to notice or pay any mind to the occasional stares we received from the other diners at the counter. After all, doesn’t every gluey-haired boy have a late-afternoon snack with his overly perfumed, coiffed, and florally adorned mother before dressing in attire one hundred years out of fashion?
    “Jiminy Christmas, lamb chop, look at the time, we’ve got to skedaddle on home or we’ll never ever ever be ready in time! Dear Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I realize you’ve got other situations to contend with, like the war in Vietnam, but please don’t let it rain tonight, not just for me and Bryanny-boy, but for LeeLee and all the other girls whose special night this is, thank you, amen!”
    As soon as she paid the lethargic keeper of the antique cash register and tipped Claude, our regular and masterful waiter, the glass-paneled doors swung open and we were off again, homeward bound at last. Speeding along Carrollton Avenue, Mother repeatedly asked me, as she would do for the rest of my days in the Crescent City, what I thought to be the most efficient route home, the