Of Green Hair and Moonglow

A Thousand-ish Words of Memoir

 

     Although my father would have denied it, we all knew that he saw us as extensions of himself. And by “all,” I mean his children and grandchildren, his wives, his women, and frankly, anyone within his emotional grasp, which meant secretaries and clerks and paper boys and ticket takers and friends’ wives and other sundry members of the fan club. However, the knowledge that one had best be an acceptable, outstanding extension rested most heavily on those of us who were connected by blood or vow.

Image – socially enviable, constantly achieving, always-on-top-of-things image - was of critical importance to him. We were moons to his sun, moons to his earth – the quality of our reflected light was an unequivocal statement regarding the brilliance of his radiance, and we could never escape the force that kept us on our appointed paths. He was not unkind, nor a tyrant. He neither commanded nor anticipated perfection. What he did expect was that, subsequent to a careful personal accounting, no one’s tally was in the red.

     This was actually quite a merciful system, given that it allowed my singing voice and compliant nature to add more points to my approval rating than my extra pounds subtracted. For others, it meant that the ability to charm outweighed mutinous flouting of the standards. But even with this sort of “One small moon and a planetary ring will compensate for your lack of atmospheric oxygen” modus operandi, we were still fully expected to adhere to a certain orbit.

About the time both of my boys were in the throes of full-blown adolescence, my father became quite distressed over their hair. He could not understand why I let them choose how they wore it. I hadn’t abdicated parental control as my father believed; I still had to sanction all choices, and the boys thought they had more freedom than they actually did. But since their wishes rarely moved outside my mentally-laid parameters, they were able to feel cool and edgy while I still felt in control.

By the time Joel’s hair had grown to his shoulders, Josh had shaved the bottom two-thirds of his head. This particular combination finally caused Daddy’s I’ve-had-enough-of-this-ometer to overflow.

And so began the latest campaign in what I like to think of as “The War of Papal Aggression,” which both acknowledges “Papa” as his official title of grandfatherhood and nicely describes the overarching relationship between my father and his grandsons.

At family gatherings, he’d circle the boys like an officer conducting troop inspection.  “What is that frigging s**t on your head?” he’d fire. “Why don’t you do something about that hair?”

The boys and I were steadfast in our “it’s our/their heads” position, thanks in some part to their youthful sense of inviolability and in even larger part to our shared genetic material.

But while the three of us held our ground, the Crusade for Respectable-As-I-See-It Hair didn’t subside.

Josh and Joel had begun their own campaign with me. They wanted to dye their hair. I gently explained in my very best “I respect your personhood” voice that there was no way in hell this would ever happen while they lived under my roof, parked their legs under my table, or in any way obtained material or financial succor from me. They persisted – they had adolescent honor to uphold, after all – but we all knew there would be no green or blue or screaming pink hair. And yet, their mutual wish for rainbow heads had a far higher purpose than one might suppose, because in that unearned, unpredictable way that conquests are sometimes made, victory had climbed up my leg and hurled itself into my lap. It little mattered that I didn’t know it yet. It was mine.

The next time we were visiting Daddy and he fired the opening salvo of that day’s Skirmish of the Manes, my response was an offhand, “You’d better be glad I draw the line at dyeing.”

And there, in those shimmering, perfect moments when the words left my mouth and arrived at his ear, I finally recognized the wish for not-found-in-nature hair color for what it was: a gift, the winning defensive maneuver in the Battle of the Boys’ Hair. On Daddy’s handsome face, I could see his fear-riddled version of the possible progression of events: the chemical coloring of the boys’ hair would lead to his public shame, closely followed by a loss of standing in the community, which would in turn viciously yank all opportunity and hope from the boys; this would lead to the eventual heartbreak of finding both boys standing guilty before his court, because earlier having been forsaken by decent folk on account of their green hair, they would have turned to sordid lives of crime, and he – their grandfather, who would recount to the bailiff the times in their youth he implored them to adopt clean-cut, this-young-man’s-going-places coifs - would be forced to sentence them to life in prison for chopping up stolen cars or setting up phony charitable endeavors one too many times, which had all begun, of course, with the flouting of society’s conventions by dyeing their hair while in their teens.

And Fox News would pick up the story.

Suddenly, long hair, partially shaved heads, rooster-ish outcroppings of hair on the top of the skull – these were nothing. Nothing. One might even think of them as desirable were one desperate enough. The threat of one of his grandsons with green hair was enough to end the Conflict of the Contorted Tresses forever.

Nothing, however, not even his death, ended the Campaign of Papal Aggression. I suspect we all still find ourselves creeping to the front on occasion, engaged by the old, dim war cries of a beloved ghost.

Through the years, we all tried, in varying degrees, to be that image that my father so valued. Our familial solar system defined us all; we followed our appointed paths, and for a time, it served us well enough.

Sometimes, though, we moons want more. As beautiful as we might be, whether near and full and low, or distant, delicate crescents, we’re only circling in a pre-ordained path as we reflect the glow of another. We long to compose our own light, to create our own trajectories, to dance and draw breath in our own radiance.

     And finally, some of us, in a tumble of unique, self-determining, orbit-spurning ways, dye our hair green.

 

Author's Note

No particular notes for reviewers. I'm interested in all responses.

Reviews

[Gordon]

I really enjoyed it. I haven't read many stories on here and the ones i've tried to read stalled out shortly after getting the engine running. So that's a compliment, I made it through the whole thing and I actually like it.

The good: I really like the celestial reference made at the beginning and at the end. Beautiful!

The bad: For me, there was a bit too much of the "Respectable-As-I-See-It", "I've-had-enough-of-this-ometer" and "always-on-top-of-things" hyphens. I know it's part of the ranting, which I think is your intention. I like the idea, but maybe it was just one too many or something for me. It could have been the combination of the hyphens and some long sentences that made me come up for air.

Best Line: Sometimes, though, we moons want more. As beautiful as we might be, whether near and full and low, or distant, delicate crescents, we're only circling in a pre-ordained path as we reflect the glow of another. We long to compose our own light, to create our own trajectories, to dance and draw breath in our own radiance.

This is probably the best paragraph i've read in a while. IT'S AMAZING! In the context of your story this last paragraph is a homerun! Nicely done, keep writing.

[Too Me]

This is a great write as you have expressed much respect for your father, but also gave your boys some independance, which at that age is important. I agree sometimes we want more from this world, and it seems that its your time to continue to evolve into the spirit you are meant to be. *Lana*

[Juan]

I was once one of them greenhaired, semi bald teens and I can relate to this AND the whole head of the clan grandfather who never really let up (even today)..lol You most definitely have a way with words but most of all you made me feel comfortable so thanks..lol

[Bear]

oh my... this is a very fine write; so unique and original!! ;~) "The War of Papel Aggression" like OMG!! that's a PERFECT fit for "Papa"!! Oh, this write still has me giggling and smiling as it reminds me of family times past with my own. Midsummer~~ thanks for much for posting your write; reading it was time well spent!!
Sallie Bear

[He@ther!]

Wow!! This really is an amazing piece!!:) Lol I especially loved the dominoe-effect you drew out for dying the hair green, it made me laugh:) Very insightful and well written:)