Of Stylists and Chocolate and Love at Home

When I was a little girl, my mom used to get her hair done every Friday.  She would get it washed and dried and styled and teased and sprayed and set.  All week long, she'd sleep on a satin pillow case to keep her hairstyle intact, and she'd just pick through it to freshen the 'do every morning.  Then, the next Friday, she'd do it all over again.  I loved her hairdressers - Jerry and Larry. They were funny and quirky and kind of outrageous, at least to a five-year-old girl in a mid-sized mid-western town.  Maybe that's where I learned my affection for quirky hairdressers.

My current stylist is right up there with the best of them in the quirky department, but in a very different way from Jerry and Larry.  He decided to become a hair stylist while he was serving in the military during the 70s.  He saw the movie "Shampoo," and was inspired by Warren Beatty's flair with women and hair.  So, my stylist is ex-military and straight.  There's some quirk for you.  With the military experience came some impressive and colorful tattoos on both arms.  He says that he often wears long-sleeved shirts so he doesn't scare the sweet little blue-haired grandmas, but he doesn't always cover up and it kind of delights him when he can tell that his art is shocking a client. Being an avid gardener and pet-lover aren't all that quirky, nor is the fact that he serves on the Historic District Commission in town, but he is a Buddhist.  And a high-ranking Freemason, who writes an insightful blog on "esoteric and comparative religion and myth" called Purposely Hoodwinked.  Quirked.

His wife reminds me a lot of my sister (who was a stylist for many years), and the two of them do hair out of their home; an old historic mansion on the main street of town.  His name is Arthur, and he feels like an old, dear friend.  He knows how to cut my curls and never leaves me feeling sheared.  He's always willing to try new things with my hair, but understands that my idea of "going crazy" means adding a few more layers this time...and not much else.

So Thursday I went for a trim.  Our chat was pretty standard; the plight of local businesses during the crazy construction while the city replaces the river bridge to Maine, pail planting vs. raised beds, the use of diet and herbs to replace statins in cardiac patients, and non-material metaphors as guideposts.  I pretty much love getting my hair cut.  It gets even better when I pay my bill and set up my next appointment, because Arthur keeps a little dish of candies on the counter.  I'm a simple girl.  On Thursday, the treats were leftover Easter candy, and as I reached for a couple of pieces, I smiled.  Butterfinger and Baby Ruth. Mom!  Those were our candies!
 

Before I started kindergarten, mom would take me grocery shopping while the other kids were in school (not on Fridays, of course, because she was getting her hair done).  I remember riding in the grocery cart, or walking alongside it.  I remember the chill of the dairy case and the thrill of the cereal aisle.  My favorite part was at the checkout counter, where mom would nearly always select two candy bars; a BabyRuth for her and a Butterfinger for me.  The rest of the shopping trip would fade away while I tore open the slick wrapper and savored the peanut-buttery, crispy-crunchy, make-your-teeth-stick-together chewiness that was Butterfinger bliss.

Somewhere along the way I discovered PayDays and Snickers, Reese's Cups and Reese's Pieces, Nerds and Nutrageous bars, and the miraculous Take5.  It's hard to say when, but I pretty much stopped buying Butterfingers until a few years ago, when I tried out a bag of the Butterfinger Bites.  They were just as delicious as I had forgotten to remember.  The one I ate on Thursday was remarkably fresh and as true as ever to my childhood memory.

Then today in church we sang "Love at Home" as the closing hymn.  It's the song my sisters and I sang (or made a valiant attempt to sing) at mom's funeral 13 years ago, and one of her favorites.  Is it strange that a visit to my stylist, a couple of bite-sized candy bars, and a song have made this Mother's Day feel more authentic than usual?

Don't get me wrong - my Skype visits with the colorful little girls who call me Grandma (and their wonderful parents) have filled my day and my heart with joy and laughter and silly noises.  Bliss.  

But Mother's Day is about showing gratitude and appreciate for your own mother, if you examine Anna Jarvis's original intent.

When President Wilson made Mother's Day a national holiday, Jarvis wrote to thank him, "saying that the day would be 'a great Home Day of our country for sons and daughters to honor their mothers and fathers and homes in a way that will perpetuate family ties and give emphasis to true home life.'" (see the link)

From that perspective, and how I'm feeling today, it's been a wonderful Mother's Day weekend.  On Thursday, I got my hair styled and ate our favorite candy bars.  I spent Friday evening playing beautiful music that she would have loved, using the skills she began teaching me 50 years ago.   Today, I wept through most of a hymn, remembering her voice singing along beside me.  I can't go home and sit next to her rocking chair and watch the birds feeding outside the huge window overlooking the valley, or lay on the bed next to her and giggle and chat until she dozes off, or go on a walk with her down below the hill.  Despite all that, it feels like Mother's Day to me, and there is beauty all around.