A dark-haired girl
Don Coldsmith
Monday, June 30, 2008
NOT LONG AGO, I saw a young woman we’ve known for years, with a new hair style. It’s always been a sort of medium brown, attractive and well cared for. This cut was a little different, though, and her hair color was several shades lighter. I commented that it was nice and she thanked me, almost embarrassed, and added that it had come out lighter than she expected.
Well, no big deal, I thought. A great many people change the color of their hair pretty often. An actress may be a blonde in one film and brunette in the next. It’s risky to describe anyone by hair color — “a redhead —” She may not BE a redhead next week. It seems odd that a couple of generations ago, a woman who colored her hair was considered almost immoral — a real hussy.
All of this brought to mind an event from some years ago. Edna and I had been married just a few years. Our family consisted of only two girls at the time, 9-year -old April and Connie, who was not a year old yet. I was still a redhead, as was the baby. April was quite blonde and Edna’s hair was an attractive medium ash-blonde.
I came home one evening, through the car port and up the few steps into the kitchen. I could hear the baby crying and as I stepped around the corner, there was a woman standing at the stove, cooking dinner, whom I didn’t recognize. She was about Edna’s size, but had dark hair, almost black. I had a moment of panic. Who was this woman? Had she killed my family? And why was she in our kitchen, cooking as if she belonged there?
About that time, April entered the kitchen, lugging the squalling baby. Both were wild-eyed and excited. Then the woman at the stove turned and to my astonishment (and relief), it WAS my Edna! But, she was sort of wild-eyed and shocky, too.
It took a while to get the whole story, what with a yelling baby and a frustrated nine-year-old and a lot of cooking in progress. Edna had gone to her hairdresser, who had apparently tried something new, turning the hair quite orange. In an attempt to repair the mistake, she tried something else. The hair, already damaged, over-reacted to the color and turned almost black. That, decided Edna, was enough. She’d let it grow out. Any further attempts at repair might do even more damage. It could be green or purple next. (Which wouldn’t be too unusual now, I guess).
Well, that covers the sequence of what and how it happened. But the results were only beginning. When Edna came home, the baby didn’t know her and wouldn’t go to her. In fact, it was about three days before Connie was sure it was safe to let this strange woman hold her. Her nine-year-old sister really did a great job of mothering, out of necessity.
After the initial shock, I handled it pretty well, I guess. The baby would let me hold her, and that helped, when I could be at home. So we managed, for that critical first few days, while the baby figured out the new ground rules.
It took the neighbors a little longer. We didn’t realize for a little while exactly what was going on. But think about it — some of them hadn’t known us too long, and others, not very well. Suddenly, where they had become accustomed to seeing a blonde mama with a red-haired baby around our place, here was a new cast of characters. There was a strange brunette, who never seemed to take care of the baby, and an overworked 9-year-old. The dad, who had never been around much anyway because of odd working hours, seemed quite enamored of this dark-haired stranger, but — oh, well, you get the idea. We were probably fortunate that the police weren’t out there digging up the back yard.
See you down the road.
Author and columnist Don Coldsmith lives in Emporia.
create (anonymous) says...
What a delightful read! Thanks for a pick-me-up, Don.
June 30, 2008 at 6:32 p.m. ( permalink | suggest removal )