GIFT: Godiva By Nan Ressue

Week 8 Word: GIFT
Word Count

“Hi Grandma. It’s Eva,” said a sweet voice on my cell phone. It’s the one, which makes me drop everything with the pleasure of being included in her teenage life.
“I need a ride to the beauty parlor after school for a haircut. You know what I mean”.
“I’ll be there on the dot my dear and meet you at the usual spot.” We walked in together for her appointment as she nervously fingered the silky tresses laying on her shoulders.
“Ok “, said the beautician. We’re ready for you”. She stood up slowly and flashed me a backward glance as she disappeared through the doorway. I settled into the overstuffed armchair with a tantalizing magazine but soon found I was more interested in reverie.
“Women are so obsessive about their hair. It’s easy to spot those hair-do milestones we go through life,” I mused to myself.
Your infants’ baby hair, silky and fine with a forever-remembered aroma, a precious snip saved inside a gold locket;
the toddler, defenseless against her mother, wearing whisk broom projections on each side of her head;
the young child with thick shiny braids tied with ribbons and occasionally coiled on her head for special occasions;
the high school co-ed who longs to fit in willingly adopts the long, straight, parted down the middle cookie cutter style which was shampooed daily, arriving breathless to class with still damp hair laying on her back;
the day the young lady asks for a permanent, her first nervous steps toward individuality; the new mother whose personal time hardly exists, asks for a “blow and go” style.
When my greys were arriving it was like a gathering snowstorm; one or two flakes at first and then a few more and finally strands different from the rest and, too soon, the transformation was complete. And now, most assuredly white, pretty dry, thinner than before but gratefully no bare spots as yet. The time has come to choose a new color scheme: white, ? tint blue? Brunette again? or, maybe at last ,blond?
I well remember the day when my mother was in the mood to reminisce, telling me that Victorian women, who wore their long hair piled high, seduced their men by slowly pulling the pins out and allowing it to cascade down over their bare shoulders. Ah, the power of suggestion
I reluctantly returned to the overstuffed chair and my magazine just in time to realize that the beautician and her young customer were standing in front of me, demonstrating a milestone that wasn’t on the list.
With her arm around my darling granddaughter’s shoulders, the beautician said,“Thank you Eva for donating your beautiful hair. You are a generous girl. I’ll tell the Cancer Center that it is here and they will pick it up in the morning.”

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