Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen
Give me down to there, hair, shoulder length or longer
Here baby, there, momma, everywhere, daddy, daddy
Hair, flow it, show it
Long as God can grow, my hair
Somewhere in the boxes of my mother’s “The Life of Angie” memorabilia, lives a ratty, navy blue folder from St. Anthony Catholic School. In this folder is my kindergarten “Me” project. There are little coloring sheets decorated with scribbles in my unsteady, five-year-old hand. Pages about who we live with, what our mommies and daddies do for work, what we want to be when we grow up (I apparently wanted to be a nurse!) and then there’s the page where we describe ourselves. Are we tall? Short? What color are our eyes? Our hair?
I am ___________________________.
I have _________________________ eyes,
and my hair is _____________________.
In the last blank, I wrote in my unpracticed hand the word "gold." Yep. Gold. I went through a period where I was adamantly opposed to my red hair. It was awful. It was terrible. It was…weird. This was all turned around one day by Opa. I was visiting my grandparents’ house and my mom told them about my latest drama. He sat me on his lap and we had a little chat.
“Ja, Anchie. Your mama said you no like your hair?”
* snuffle * “Noooooo!”
“You know my sister Elly, she has the red hair, too.”
“I know.”
“And my brother Anthony. And Elly’s little girl Mikey. They have the red hair.”
“I knoooowwww.”
“But you know what?” His bushy eyebrows rose as he looked me in the eye. “It’s not red!”
?????
“It’s gold!”
!!!!!
“Ja! It’s gold! And it’s only for the special people. Like you, and my brother and sister, and your cousins.”
“Gold? Hair?”
“Ja, Anchie! So you should always love your beautiful gold hair, and don’t you let anyone say anything bad. You hear?”
“Yes, Opa!” I slid off his lap and ran to Oma’s dresser for her little silver mirror and smiled at my gold hair.
“Excuse me, miss?”
“Yes?”
“Can I axe you somethin’ real quick? A favor?”
“Okay. What is it?”
“Can I touch your daughter’s hair?”
“Excuse me?”
“Please. Can I touch your daughter’s hair?”
“Sure, go ahead!”
The wrinkled hand gently caressed the crown of my head, the elderly black woman’s skin thin as tissue paper and soft as butterfly wings. She closed her eyes, smiled, and sighed.
“Thank you, miss.”
“You’re welcome…but can I ask why?”
“Oh, miss, red hair like this? Your baby’s gonna have good luck, and now I can too. Thank you so much, miss.”
“Yes, ma’am…I hope you do have good luck!”
This actually happened more than once to my mother and I as we walked through the French Quarter on weekends or waited for Mardi Gras parades to pass. The first time, she admits, was pretty weird, but after that she didn’t think twice about granting the simple request of these adorably superstitious ladies. I just liked the attention!
Question: What do two bored girls do on a Saturday night when it’s raining and nothing’s good at the movies?
Answer: Go to Walgreens and buy hair dye!
That’s what Jen and I did one weekend during the spring of my junior year. I had been dunking my head in bowls of super-concentrated black cherry Kool-Aid for weeks, but it washed out in a few days and turned the shower floor red (which didn’t exactly please the mother figure). We decided it would be just brilliant to go ahead and do something more long-lasting. Of course I couldn’t do something subtle or close to natural. I chose black. Superman black. The darkest, deepest black available. It was actually called “blue-black.”
I loved it. For about a week. Then I realized it looked a little out of place on my pale, freckled skin. Then I noticed that red roots were starting to peek. Then I discovered that it wasn’t lightening even a little bit. Then we tried to strip it out, which gave me leopard-print hair. Then that led to cutting off about eight inches of it. Then my new cut looked like the butt-end of a red chicken.
Once the growing and stripping and trimming and conditioning was all said and done, I got myself back to my normal, ginger self. I’ve dyed it again here and there over the years since, but never so drastically, and usually with immediate regret.
Now I love my red curls, even when I hate them. And I hope my Petite Rouge loves hers.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Headache (Eleven - an incident with a bully)
The time? A lovely spring day in south Louisiana…sun shining, crepe myrtles in riotous pink bloom, cotton candy clouds cruising past.
The place? A high school quad…a grassy rectangle where the B-lunch crowd mingled, gossiped, and sprawled in the sun like lizards. Red brick walls provided shade, and small raised nooks gave a secret place for smokers to gather, their black-dyed hair, Metallica shirts, and leather jackets unseemly for the cheerful day. The grunge kids frolicked near the stairwell by the arts class, unaware that their idol was merely weeks away from taking his own life. In the center, just in front of the cafeteria doors, is a flagpole set into a concrete base, and this is where our story begins…
A young girl (let’s call her Angie…what the hell…) who is normally fully ensconced in the typical teenage chitchat and friendly flirting is off by herself today. She had a headache. No big deal, really. Just needed a break from the noise. So she moved away from the group to sit at the base of the flagpole and take five. She closed her eyes and tilted her head up to the blazing sun, which at first kind of scraped at her brain like a cheese grater, but then started to feel good. Kind of like a massage hurts at first, but then there’s that “ahhhhhhh.” You know. The hot concrete and metal warmed her from the inside, and the earthy breeze blowing in from the Mississippi River filled her lungs with warmth. The headache was beginning to subside.
She nestled into her fuzzy sweater and scraped the soles of her worn-out Chucks on the sidewalk to accompany the chorus of “Friday, I’m in Love” that was playing in her head.
A shadow crossed over her.
“What’s wrong with you?”
She looked up at the intruder, squinting. “What?”
A toe nudged hers. “What’s wrong with you?”
Ugh. David Hamback. (Seriously. That was this kid’s name. He’d been a zit in their school for years.) “I. Have. A. Headache. That’s. Why. I’m. AWAY.”
“Oooohhhh…” (The Neanderthal’s eyes lit up.) “Your head hurts?”
Boy. A genius! “Yes. That’s generally what a headache means.”
“You know what else hurts?” (Is this a trick question?)
“What?”
“This.” With that, his meaty hand snarled in her hair, right at the nape of her neck, and he yanked a handful of red curls.
She leapt from her perch, incredulous, too stunned to say anything.
And then it happened. The whole slow-pan, muted voices, blurry faces, jaws dropping, cheesy movie scene…thing. Angie reared back an arm and swung. The little, balled fist connected with his fleshy jaw with a thud. Then both just stared. Four things then happened simultaneously. One – the laughter began, of course. Two – he shook his head like a dog after a bath, but with a much funnier expression (shock and humiliation, maybe?). Three – Mr. Garrison, the extremely intimidating school disciplinarian, left his perch on the steps and walked toward her with a look of purpose. Four – Angie burst into hysterical tears.
Mr. Garrison strode to where she was standing, still crying, and took her by the arm. “Come on, Miss Smoorenburg.”
She glanced at her friends. Chad and Van were giving thumbs-ups, Cassie was grinning ear-to-ear, and Stephen and Chris offered to take her to dinner. Angie turned and faced doom in the form of a six-foot-four, shiny-headed black man who was built like a tank. Head hung, defeated, still snuffling, she followed him to his office.
They sat in the cool cinderblock room on opposite sides of his desk. He glared down, like an angry Buddha, elbows on the desk and fists under his chin so only his eyes looked across at her. Angie let out a pathetic squeak as she tried to explain herself. “Mr. Gar-“
“Stop.” He held out a paw the size of a baseball mitt. “Just stop right there.” Oh, God. This is going to suck so bad… “You still hungry?”
What? “What?”
“You still hungry?”
“Um. Not really?”
“I saw what that boy did. He been axin’ for that for a long time. You alright, honey.”
ohmygodohmygodohmygod
“I’m…not in trouble?”
“Take a few minutes, calm down, and you can go back to class. I’m going to get some coffee.”
Angie saw his shoulders shaking with laughter as he left the office, leaving her to wonder what exactly inspired his mercy. Was it the damsel-in-distress factor? Was it that she was obviously upset about the whole thing? Or did the grownups in charge secretly enjoy seeing the school buttheads get taken down a notch? She never asked, but each time she saw him after that, he gave her a wink and a smile.
The place? A high school quad…a grassy rectangle where the B-lunch crowd mingled, gossiped, and sprawled in the sun like lizards. Red brick walls provided shade, and small raised nooks gave a secret place for smokers to gather, their black-dyed hair, Metallica shirts, and leather jackets unseemly for the cheerful day. The grunge kids frolicked near the stairwell by the arts class, unaware that their idol was merely weeks away from taking his own life. In the center, just in front of the cafeteria doors, is a flagpole set into a concrete base, and this is where our story begins…
A young girl (let’s call her Angie…what the hell…) who is normally fully ensconced in the typical teenage chitchat and friendly flirting is off by herself today. She had a headache. No big deal, really. Just needed a break from the noise. So she moved away from the group to sit at the base of the flagpole and take five. She closed her eyes and tilted her head up to the blazing sun, which at first kind of scraped at her brain like a cheese grater, but then started to feel good. Kind of like a massage hurts at first, but then there’s that “ahhhhhhh.” You know. The hot concrete and metal warmed her from the inside, and the earthy breeze blowing in from the Mississippi River filled her lungs with warmth. The headache was beginning to subside.
She nestled into her fuzzy sweater and scraped the soles of her worn-out Chucks on the sidewalk to accompany the chorus of “Friday, I’m in Love” that was playing in her head.
A shadow crossed over her.
“What’s wrong with you?”
She looked up at the intruder, squinting. “What?”
A toe nudged hers. “What’s wrong with you?”
Ugh. David Hamback. (Seriously. That was this kid’s name. He’d been a zit in their school for years.) “I. Have. A. Headache. That’s. Why. I’m. AWAY.”
“Oooohhhh…” (The Neanderthal’s eyes lit up.) “Your head hurts?”
Boy. A genius! “Yes. That’s generally what a headache means.”
“You know what else hurts?” (Is this a trick question?)
“What?”
“This.” With that, his meaty hand snarled in her hair, right at the nape of her neck, and he yanked a handful of red curls.
She leapt from her perch, incredulous, too stunned to say anything.
And then it happened. The whole slow-pan, muted voices, blurry faces, jaws dropping, cheesy movie scene…thing. Angie reared back an arm and swung. The little, balled fist connected with his fleshy jaw with a thud. Then both just stared. Four things then happened simultaneously. One – the laughter began, of course. Two – he shook his head like a dog after a bath, but with a much funnier expression (shock and humiliation, maybe?). Three – Mr. Garrison, the extremely intimidating school disciplinarian, left his perch on the steps and walked toward her with a look of purpose. Four – Angie burst into hysterical tears.
Mr. Garrison strode to where she was standing, still crying, and took her by the arm. “Come on, Miss Smoorenburg.”
She glanced at her friends. Chad and Van were giving thumbs-ups, Cassie was grinning ear-to-ear, and Stephen and Chris offered to take her to dinner. Angie turned and faced doom in the form of a six-foot-four, shiny-headed black man who was built like a tank. Head hung, defeated, still snuffling, she followed him to his office.
They sat in the cool cinderblock room on opposite sides of his desk. He glared down, like an angry Buddha, elbows on the desk and fists under his chin so only his eyes looked across at her. Angie let out a pathetic squeak as she tried to explain herself. “Mr. Gar-“
“Stop.” He held out a paw the size of a baseball mitt. “Just stop right there.” Oh, God. This is going to suck so bad… “You still hungry?”
What? “What?”
“You still hungry?”
“Um. Not really?”
“I saw what that boy did. He been axin’ for that for a long time. You alright, honey.”
ohmygodohmygodohmygod
“I’m…not in trouble?”
“Take a few minutes, calm down, and you can go back to class. I’m going to get some coffee.”
Angie saw his shoulders shaking with laughter as he left the office, leaving her to wonder what exactly inspired his mercy. Was it the damsel-in-distress factor? Was it that she was obviously upset about the whole thing? Or did the grownups in charge secretly enjoy seeing the school buttheads get taken down a notch? She never asked, but each time she saw him after that, he gave her a wink and a smile.
Croissant d'Or (Memoir - a building that's important)
I place my hand on the window of the ancient, peeling, wooden door and push. A brass bell jingles and a whiff of espresso and buttery, sugared pastries greets me as I enter the French Quarter coffeehouse. The left side of the space is filled with a charming array of mismatched tables and chairs, and to the right is a massive oak counter and pastry case, every surface covered with jars of cookies, bags of coffee beans, mixed with fliers for this weekend’s hot concerts. Our friendly barista greets us with a grin, smiling through pierced lips and tongue. My friends and I place our orders and chat over the roar of the espresso machine. Coffees in hand, we make our way to the courtyard out back.
Floor-to-ceiling French doors lead the way outside, and we step into tropical splendor. Ferns hang from balconies, palm trees arch over the tiny tables, and ivy covers the weather-worn brick walls. We choose a table in a corner, near a bubbling fountain, and settle in for some writing and relaxing.
Three other people are in the courtyard, each in their own private silence.
A businessman, on a mid-morning break from the glass walls of his office building, I would guess, sits at the center table. He is tap-tap-tapping furiously on his laptop, ending each burst with a decisive whack on the keyboard. As he does this, he is fiddling with his ear. He looks nervous, and it’s a tic that seems totally out-of-character with his put-together, in-control aura. Part of me wants to ask what’s wrong, but I hear my mother in my head telling me I know better.
The corner table diagonal from us is occupied by a rumpled, academic sort. The cobblestones beneath him are littered with pastry wrappers, crumpled sheets of looseleaf, and dog-eared paperbacks that I recognize from my college lit classes. The telltale white cords extend from his ears, and he occasionally bursts into action, drumming a rhythm on the table. He refills his ceramic mug at least three times, and I have a feeling the caffeine is fueling what will be an all-day study session.
There is a table almost hidden by palm fronds, and this is the resting place for the third person out here. I see a pair of calf-high, black patent Doc Martens at the end of a pair of stretched-out legs. Red-and-black striped tights lead up to a black miniskirt held closed by a few dozen safety pins. A vintage Kinks t-shirt tops off the outfit, and her hair is streaked red and black to match.
I know I’m supposed to be writing, because technically that’s the mission for the morning, but this motley crew is too fun to resist. I lean back in my wrought-iron chair and wonder how an eclectic group like this has come together. We’re not at the Starbucks on the main road. Croissant d’Or is off the beaten path and could easily be mistaken for someone’s house if you don’t know what you’re looking for. It’s the kind of place a person seeks out deliberately, and I love that we’re all strangers sharing the companionable silence.
Floor-to-ceiling French doors lead the way outside, and we step into tropical splendor. Ferns hang from balconies, palm trees arch over the tiny tables, and ivy covers the weather-worn brick walls. We choose a table in a corner, near a bubbling fountain, and settle in for some writing and relaxing.
Three other people are in the courtyard, each in their own private silence.
A businessman, on a mid-morning break from the glass walls of his office building, I would guess, sits at the center table. He is tap-tap-tapping furiously on his laptop, ending each burst with a decisive whack on the keyboard. As he does this, he is fiddling with his ear. He looks nervous, and it’s a tic that seems totally out-of-character with his put-together, in-control aura. Part of me wants to ask what’s wrong, but I hear my mother in my head telling me I know better.
The corner table diagonal from us is occupied by a rumpled, academic sort. The cobblestones beneath him are littered with pastry wrappers, crumpled sheets of looseleaf, and dog-eared paperbacks that I recognize from my college lit classes. The telltale white cords extend from his ears, and he occasionally bursts into action, drumming a rhythm on the table. He refills his ceramic mug at least three times, and I have a feeling the caffeine is fueling what will be an all-day study session.
There is a table almost hidden by palm fronds, and this is the resting place for the third person out here. I see a pair of calf-high, black patent Doc Martens at the end of a pair of stretched-out legs. Red-and-black striped tights lead up to a black miniskirt held closed by a few dozen safety pins. A vintage Kinks t-shirt tops off the outfit, and her hair is streaked red and black to match.
I know I’m supposed to be writing, because technically that’s the mission for the morning, but this motley crew is too fun to resist. I lean back in my wrought-iron chair and wonder how an eclectic group like this has come together. We’re not at the Starbucks on the main road. Croissant d’Or is off the beaten path and could easily be mistaken for someone’s house if you don’t know what you’re looking for. It’s the kind of place a person seeks out deliberately, and I love that we’re all strangers sharing the companionable silence.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Lucky Dog
Apathy sets in.
Off we go
to the playground of sin.
Bourbon Street
all aglow.
Drunkards and strippers
roam to and fro.
From Bar A to Club B
we shimmy and shake,
and after four hours
our bellies do quake.
For alcohol? No.
Something much keener.
We set out in search
of a big, tasty wiener.
One block, then two.
We need to be fed.
There it is! The beckoning cart,
bright yellow and red.
We pass over our cash,
we sing and we cheer,
'Cause we're stuffing a Lucky Dog
On top of our Big Ass Beer.
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