Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

By

Melissa Ellis

"Mookie, I want you to wash and roll my hair before you leave," Ma said, for what was probably

the third time.

"Ok, Ma" I replied with a sigh, finally giving in.

I don't know how it happened or even remember when it did, but I had become the

designated shampoo and roller girl. Maybe it was because I was the youngest and, being the

last one to live with her, had gotten the chore through a process of elimination. However, even

after I'd moved away, doing Ma's hair was still my job. Luckily, I didn't really mind. The simple

act of wash, rinse, repeat had a soothing affect on me.

After ushering her to the kitchen, I cleared the counter to give us more room and bent her

over the edge of the sink. I began by wetting her hair, pouring the shampoo into my palms and

then slowly massaging the fluffy white bubbles into her hair. Ma had never made a fuss about

her hair, but she had always been meticulous about its care. I can't remember ever seeing it

unkempt, unless it was being washed or rolled.

Hair care was only one of the many consistent things in Ma's life. A single mother after the

unexpected death of my father, she had taken a job as an elementary school custodian and had

kept that job for as many of my twenty-four years as I could remember.

My father's existence is almost as unreal to me as his death because I was only about two

when he was killed. I've heard about him over the years, but I can't remember anything specific

about the actual conversations; like a dream that I can't quite remember the details of. He was

killed at the hands of someone that he thought was a friend. Leaving a card game, he'd been

stabbed and had died instantly. Although there were rumors of who had murdered him, no

one was ever arrested or charged for the crime that robbed five children of their father and a

woman of her husband.

Ma never talked about Daddy's death. Never. The little that I do know about him came from

my sisters, my brother and random conversations that I was never directly involved in. By all

accounts, Ma had remained strong through the entire ordeal and had simply done what needed

to be done. Although I'm sure she cried, none of us had ever seen the tears and she never

discussed Daddy with us. She had simply done what needed to be done. She had taken

that custodial job and picked up Daddy's share of the responsibilities as if they had always

been her own. With her mother's help, she continued to take care of us, while also paying the

bills for the small trailer we called home.

Ma had chosen to live in our small mobile home even after all of us, my brother and sisters

and me, were grown and on our own. Until recently, that is. Less than a year before, she had

decided to move into a small apartment instead. Now that her children were grown, she'd said,

it was time for her to live her life for her. Renting the apartment had been her first step towards

total independence. Even so, I couldn't help but remember all of the times I'd done this same

job in that small mobile home.

Having been Ma's designated shampoo girl, it’s funny that role had never been reversed. I

can't remember a time when Ma had washed my hair. Raised by my grandmother for most of

my younger years, it was she who had cared for my hair until I was old enough to do so myself.

I was small enough to actually lie face-up on the counter as Grandma washed my hair. Even

then, the process had a calming effect on me.

Grandma talked to me the whole time. She told me how pretty and thick my hair was.

She now wears wigs to disguise her thinning hair, but in her stories, she had no need for them.

Back then, her own hair, as she always reminded me, was as thick and beautiful as mine.

Those moments always left me feeling beautiful and I suspect her memories of her own hair left

her feeling the same way.

Looking around, I realized that other than the actual location, Ma's kitchen hadn't changed

much. The faded yellow curtains, the heavy cast iron skillet that always remained on or near the

stove and the wooden handled silverware had all made the journey from the trailer to the new

apartment. The toaster sat in the same proximity to the sink as it had in the trailer, as did the

fancy wooden breadbox. Her recipe box still sat atop the refrigerator and the dish-towels hung

across the lower cabinet door. It felt as if Ma had simply picked up the old kitchen and moved it

to the new apartment.

In the trailer, I had been forced to wash Ma's hair in the bathroom sink because there simply

wasn't enough room to do it in the kitchen. She'd hated that, mainly because it hurt her neck to

bend down so far. The bathroom wasn't much bigger than the kitchen, just less cluttered - no

water bucket next to the stove and no dish rack next to the sink to get in our way. We couldn't

stretch out by any means, but I had always managed to give Ma a good shampoo, massaging the

foamy bubbles into her hair, scratching her scalp and protecting her eyes from the shampoo as

fiercely as a mother bear protects her cubs. Remembering those days, I smiled, performing the

chore as I always had. But my trip down memory lane didn't last long, nor did the happiness

that accompanied it.

As I maneuvered my hands over Ma's head, her hair began to come out. Not the occasional

stray strand or two that one would expect during a routine shampoo, but handfuls of her hair

were everywhere - wrapping around my fingers, swirling in the sink and gathering in the drain.

"Ma," I said, my voice shaky despite my attempt to stay strong and prepare her for this.

"Your hair is coming out."

Her spine stiffened.

"A lot of it, Ma."

In silence, I rinsed what was left of Ma's hair, unable to resist watching as it slowly swirled

down the drain. A million things went through my mind - shock, anger, sadness, uncertainty.

What must she be feeling? What, if anything, could I do or say to make it better? I was

terrified. How could I comfort someone who I imagined being ten times as terrified because this

was actually happening to them?

After what seemed like hours, Ma's mostly bald-head was wrapped in a towel as I quietly

followed her to the bathroom. She removed the towel and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

Together, we took in the remaining wispy patches that looked more like peach fuzz than hair and

the smooth baldness of her head. I noticed a weakness in her eyes that I hadn't seen before

and a tightness in her mouth; the kind that comes from trying to hide a pain that was impossible

to hide.

"We knew this was gonna happen, right?" I asked, trying to sound soothing.

She nodded, but her eyes lacked conviction.

"It's gonna be alright, Ma," I said, trying to smile. "It's gonna grow back, just watch."

Her weak smile failed to reach her eyes. Without a word, she replaced the towel around her

head, walked back to the kitchen and proceeded to clean up. Just as she had when Daddy died,

Ma carried on as if nothing had happened. She took the shampoo back to its proper place, wiped

down the counters and cleaned the sink. Neither of us spoke, although there was much I

wanted to say and do.

I wanted to hug her, lay my cheek atop her head and tell her that it would be all right. I

wanted to cry with her, wanted her to know that she wasn't alone. But my family's relationship

had never been a physically close one. We weren't the type of family who hugged or said "I love

you." We rarely showed our feelings, relying instead on an unspoken understanding and the

connection that came with being family.

Somehow, it didn't seem right to dote on her.

Not sure what else to say or do, I quickly gathered my things and left the apartment. My

brother's apartment was in the same complex and I made the short trek to his place in a fog. I

entered the apartment where my brother and sisters were playing a game of cards. Grimly, I

told them the news.

"She won't want everybody making it a big deal," one sister said. We all agreed and decided

to leave Ma alone to deal with it.

"It" was a really inadequate word for what was happening to our family, but none of us had

the desire or the courage to admit what "it" really meant. I, however, had a more physical

image of "it" because as Ma's hair had fallen through my fingers, I had seen her not only

as I always had - as a mother, provider, role model - but in the new role which had been forced

upon her: that of cancer patient.

My mother passed away a few months later, a mere six months after being diagnosed with

lung cancer. She was buried wearing a wig.

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