Hair

"The hair is the richest ornament of women."
~Martin Luther

"I'm not offended by all the dumb-blonde jokes because I know that I'm not dumb. I also know I'm not blonde." ~Dolly Parton


Among womankind, there are certain topics of conversation that can almost always be counted on, given the situation. A group of married women can almost always sustain a rousing conversation about the idiosyncracies of their husbands. With groups of mothers, you can count on conversations regarding labor and delivery and childhood issues (orthodontia, childhood illnesses, discipline strategies).

Subjects that will take hold, however, with any group of women--of various ages--are accessories (shoes, purses, jewelry) and--best bet ever--hair. A case in point: Last week at Ladies' Bible Study, one woman walked into the room and complimented another's hair. The complimentee looked a little puzzled, and the complimenter said, "The color--it looks pretty. Don't worry, we all do it." And yes--J, sitting next to the complimentee, confessed that she had just paid her regular visit to the hairdresser earlier in the week, and I happily announced that I would be seeing my person the next day.

And nothing will draw a crowd of women around another like a new hairstyle with ensuing conversations about how one woman makes her hair do this particular thing, how we'd all love to have that hairstyle if only we were younger . . . our hair wasn't so thin . . . our hair wasn't so thick . . .

And so I began a personal reflection on the history of my own hairstyles. It's kind of boring. As I told a friend yesterday, there's a good reason I've never had long hair. My hair is so thick that it bushes out as it grows longer, and my face gets lost in this mass of hair that just plain takes over. And then it falls flat under the weight of itself. So the following is a pictorial history of my hair, starting at about age 2.



You can see here that the side part has pretty much always been with me, and, one way or another, I've kept the blonde. From my earliest years, I was being sent to bed in rollers or with bobby pins forming "spit curls" on the sides. This must have been during the years when I was still cooperative and didn't rip them out of my hair when the lights went out.



And here we see, visually demonstrated, why I am not a long-hair girl. This was probably about fourth grade, and this is the longest my hair has ever been. The only thing larger than the hair was the glasses, but that's a whole other fashion history. Note the bobby pin. And a conversation for another time, but I am wearing one of my first-ever pantsuits. (We weren't allowed to wear pants to school until third or fourth grade.)



Illustrated here is my college graduation picture, and note that by now the hairstyle has stabilized and has pretty much remained a variation of this form since my early high school years. Sometimes the part has changed sides (there was a brief regrettable period when I attempted a middle part), the back has gone up and down, the ears have been cut out at times, and there was a period of shame in Katie's early years when I actually had a perm, but by and large, this has been it.



"It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window."
~Raymond Chandler

Christmas Past

Since Christmas is past, it seemed only right to re-visit a Christmas that is really, really past. This picture was taken probably about thirty-five Christmases ago, and it was clearly one of those last-minute, let's-get-a-shot-of-the-kids-quick-so-we-can-get-the-Christmas-cards-out Kodak moments. I'm thinking this was an impulse thing, because nobody who planned to take a picture for a Christmas card would have intentionally dressed us like this. Pictured here are, from left to right, myself at about 9, my younger sister Kristi (2), and my brother Tim (6).

Some observations:

1. The card, ironically, says "Greetings from our home to yours." This was not our home. We spent a lot of time here, and we loved being here--but this is Grandma Walborn's house. So now I'm wondering how many people who received this either thought it was our house or, if they recognized the setting, just thought--for some reason--we were living with my grandparents.

2. The piece of furniture we are sitting on is not a couch and it is not a sofa. It is a davenport. I really don't know how a davenport is different from a couch or sofa, but in all my life I don't remember Grandma saying the word "couch" or "sofa." This was a davenport.

3. Those drapes behind the davenport made a great hiding place in a pinch--when the person who was "it" was getting close to the designated number and you hadn't been able to think of someplace more creative.

4. Based on my outfit, you might think that I attended an all-girls' Catholic grade school, but this was my Bluebirds uniform, and the Bluebirds uniform was something we took very seriously. Bluebirds, of course, was the precursor to Campfire Girls. Other thoughts on my ensemble: You know--if you had glasses--yours looked just about like mine, so don't laugh. I've pretty much always been a short-hair girl; this is about the longest my hair has ever been. And this is my natural color, of course.

5. I really wish I could remember what we were having such a good time looking at. We three normally didn't get along that well, particularly if we were made to sit together in one place, so I'm sure we're not reflecting the joy of sibling togetherness here.

6. Why did the photographer not tell my brother to put his arms down for the shot?

Senior Pictures . . . Then and Now

If I were back in my Freshman Composition teaching days, these two pictures could be a study in contrasts: a senior picture from 2008 and a senior picture from . . . not 2008. (I'm cringing as I type this and for the first time realize that my daughter is graduating from high school almost thirty years after I did. No wonder these pictures look so dang different! I'm feeling incredibly ancient at the moment.)

Anyway, the experiences themselves were incredibly different, in the following ways. Homeschooling friends, feel free to use this as a writing exercise; here's the outline:

1. Location, location, location: Back in the Mesozoic era in Wauseon, Ohio, there really weren't a lot of options for photographers. Most of us drove about three miles west, to the booming town of Pettisville, and were photographed at the studio of Dick and Dee. There were a few props, maybe a mirror, a desk as you see here. It was all very contained. On the other hand, Katie's senior pics (or should I say photo shoot) were all over downtown Grand Rapids, but mostly in places where drug addicts and alcoholics hang out, except early Saturday mornings when we were there. Truly--at one site, we had to kick gin bottles out of the way, and at one spot, Leda, our fearless photographer, warned Katie to stay out of the poison ivy (which I would have thought we wouldn't need to worry about downtown, but the grassy areas around some of those falling-down buildings--the best backdrop for a photo shoot--are not well tended. My photographer did not risk his life in any way to capture me; indeed, he did not break a sweat. Leda, however, stood in the turn lane at the corner of Fulton and Division to get this picture of Katie. And at one point, both Leda and Katie were lying on their stomachs in a parking lot, facing each other. Frostbite and pneumonia were definitely realities for both of them at that point.

2. Wardrobe: I wore a nice church dress, as you can see. To be honest, this was my second attempt at getting decent senior pics. In the first, I had a couple of wardrobe changes (two other nice dresses), but the end result was not good, and so I went back for round 2. Katie started out wearing jeans and a sweater, then changed to a jumper and top--complete with tights and heels--in the middle of the sidewalk on a brisk November Saturday morning. At some point she changed again--back to the jeans and a black sweater, with two different scarves as accessories.

3. Final product: I had some proofs to choose from, with the end result being this nice, old-fashioned photo of a demure young lady headed for Christian college in the fall. Katie's photographer, Leda, first posted several of her favorite pictures of Katie on her blog only a few hours after the photo shoot here (scroll down to the November 1 post for Katie). This past weekend, Leda finished all of her editing and left us with no fewer than 119 poses to choose from. Please note the caption under this particular photo of Katie on the blog: S.M.O.K.I.N. In another HUGE contrast, I have never been described as "smokin."

And there you have it: senior pics of mother and daughter from a very long time ago and 2008. If that doesn't produce at least a 500-word comparison/contrast essay, I'm not sure what will.

The Library

A conversation last night with Henry led us down a path of nostalgia and back to the places I remember so fondly. I was descriptively walking him down the main street of my hometown, Wauseon, Ohio, and landed on a spot that I'm reluctant to leave, even an evening later when nostalgia is no longer the topic of conversation and the demands of a new week call for my attention.

We were actually talking about grocery stores when I recalled my childhood nirvana, that place that was better than any other. Growing up in a small town in northwestern Ohio in the sixties and seventies meant that small children could do things that mothers would never think of letting them do now. Across the street from the A&P and town post office, just a block from Main Street, was the library--a place so amazing, so quiet, so lovely--so full of books. And when I was still very small, when my mom would shop for groceries at the A&P, she would let me cross the street and visit the library, all by myself.

How could you not love a building in a small town with stained glass like this? And that was just the icing on the cake. Past the card catalog, up the creaky stairway were the children's books, protectively covered in stiff cellophane, some with scotch-taped pages, repaired by a horrified mother who hoped that the librarian wouldn't notice.

Bookshelves just my height contained favorites like Dandelion and Corduroy. And then--as I got a little older--I discovered those neglected books over against the wall, easily overlooked by children who wanted the shallow entertainment of the Bobbsey Twins and Nancy Drew: the plain, burnt-orange colored Childhood of Famous Americans books, with their simple titles in a drab brown type. A girl would definitely have to look beneath the surface to find the treasures inside, and while mom was over at the A&P picking up the bread, meat, milk, and other essentials, I was deciding which famous American heroine I would read about this week: Molly Pitcher, Clara Barton, Helen Keller, or Louisa May Alcott. Sometimes I'd even set my young feminist prejudices aside and read about Abraham Lincoln or Thomas Edison.

And then there was the day that I graduated to the adult section downstairs. In what at the time seemed an enormous room, I made my way through the stacks to my first grown-up book: Jane Eyre. Then high school made me aware of the two front rooms that contained the periodicals, where I was introduced to literary treasures like Teen and Seventeen magazines.

What a marvelous place, this old building that smelled of scotch tape, probably a little dust, ink pens, rubber stamps, and--well, if you've never enjoyed the pleasures of a small-town library, you won't understand--books.

And so I miss my little library, which is still where it was on Elm Street all those years ago, but now with additions, computers, stuffed Arthurs--and no card catalogs. I never would have dreamed back then that I would only visit it here --now a page on the Internet, with only my memories to remind me that it was a real place where a little girl learned to love books and grew up and became an editor, someone who puts books together. And even though I don't think there were any biographies of the childhoods of famous American editors, those books wouldn't have been there if there hadn't been an editor. Even Louisa May Alcott needed an editor, after all.

Heirlooms

Since earlier this spring, I've been devoting some time to emptying a house--a task that is tiring, emotional, and even rewarding at times. It needs to be done. I'm afraid that while I haven't wanted to be a pack rat, single parenting and working at jobs outside my home left me little time for doing anything beyond what absolutely needed to be done, so doll houses, train sets, Christmas ornaments, outgrown clothes, books, and ever so many other things seemed to accumulate in the basement of what we now fondly refer to as the Coleman house.

As I sort through the stuff of four people's lives, deciding what is important enough to keep and what can be discarded, I find myself thinking about an old Amy Grant song from her first Christmas CD (one of my favorite Christmas CDs):

Up in the attic (for me--down in the basement)
Down on my knees
Lifetimes of boxes
Timeless to me
Letters and photographs
Yellowed with years
Some bringing laughter
Some bringing tears

Time never changes
The memories, the faces
Of loved ones, who bring to me
All that I come from
And all that I live for
And all that I'm going to be
My precious family
Is more than an heirloom to me

These lyrics sum up the experience well. I've found many letters and cards from people that I haven't thought about in years; sometimes I have to reach way back in my memory to remember who they were, what they looked like, and why they sent a card or letter. Cards and notes written in my sister's and grandma's hand bring quick tears and a realization that no matter how many years pass, I still miss them terribly. I even found a note I had typed to my best friend, Julie, when I was in typing class in high school; she had sent it back to me in a letter at some point.

And then, just last week, I found a box full of high school memorabilia--pictures, newspaper clippings, judges' sheets from music competitions, and even the certification that I passed driver's training. But perhaps this picture represents the biggest high school memory of all--my starring role my senior year in the Wizard of Oz.

People in small towns like Wauseon, Ohio, where I grew up, get pretty excited about local high school sports events, choir and band concerts, and the annual musicals. A person rising to the spotlight in one of those venues quickly gets an inflated sense of her own importance when everyone in town recognizes that she, Ted Walborn's daughter, is Dorothy and her picture appears with the rest of the cast on the front page of the local paper.

But there's always something to bring even small-town celebs back to earth. A couple of days before opening night, the cast gave a practice performance for the elementary school students. I woke up that morning feeling kind of like the Wicked Witch of the West after Dorothy threw water on her or the Tin Man before he was oiled--you get the idea--a combination of late nights, not eating well, and nerves, most likely. When the curtain opened to reveal Dorothy's house relocated in Oz, Dorothy didn't appear. She was in the bathroom, backstage, throwing up. It was not a shining moment.

The good news is that I went home, went to bed, rested, and recovered for opening night. If I hadn't already been receiving enough attention, this bout with sickness put it over the top. I got more well wishes and bouquets than most small-town high school lead actresses ever get. My fame was probably extended an extra five minutes because of the sympathy factor. It was quite an experience, quite a time--my twenty minutes of small-town fame.

And as I place this event in the context of my life, I say, with Dorothy, "People come and go so quickly here!"