moment I pray that he turns to find me dazzlingly attractive, the wild goddess he has always
secretly wanted me to be.
“Interesting look.” He evaluates my hair like an insurance agent appraising crash damage.
“You don’t like it?”
Michael shifts his eyes back to the stage. “You look like Larry from the Three Stooges. Except female. Just kidding. ”
“You hate it.”
“No, no. It’s cute.
You’re
cute. I’m just not used to seeing you with curly hair. Don’t worry. I’ll get used to it.”
Lucy steps onto the stage and Michael reaches for my hand as our daughter centers herself on the piano bench and raises her
delicate fingers. I glance at my husband’s face and see that his eyes are already brimming. He squeezes my hand harder.
“Remember when she was a baby?” he whispers. “Remember how she tried to play the piano with her feet?”
I want to share Michael’s moment of pride and nostalgia but all I can think about is this calamity atop my head, this stiff
mass of curls and kink. This is not something I can wash out in the shower. I’m stuck with this monstrosity for the next five
months, maybe longer.
Michael does not look directly at me for the rest of the evening. When he talks to me he seems to be addressing my kneecaps.
Caitlin says she wants my “old head back.” Jake cries when I picked him up from kindergarten. I have made a horrible mistake.
Tonight I set the table with the good place mats, the ones I bought at the Hallmark store for forty-two dollars made of heavy
pressboard and laminated to a high gloss. As I set one down at Michael’s place at the head of the table, I notice that it’s
stained, a big oil stain that mars the watercolor skies like a thunderhead. The fat spotted cows are no longer grazing under
a clear blue sky but in the gloom of the approaching squall.
I watch Michael pick at his cornflake-crumb chicken and mashed sweet potatoes.
“Something wrong?”
“Not much of an appetite,” he mumbles.
“Hard day at work?”
“Not really.”
“Is it my hair?” I blurt out. “Just be honest with me.”
Michael puts down his fork and the kids stare at their father and wait for his response, hoping, I’m sure, that he will give
authoritative voice to their own opinion of my devastated head. He lifts the napkin to his mouth.
“Maybe.” He sighs. “You had such beautiful hair, Jules. You’re a beautiful woman. Why couldn’t you just let it alone?”
“It’s a girl thing,” I say, falling back on the lamest of alibis.
“It’s not a girl thing, it’s a mistake.” Michael finally makes eye contact with me. “Oh, Julia, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it
that way. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s okay. You’re right. It was a mistake.” I run my fingers through my hair and hear it crackle. After dinner I take a
very long, very hot shower and shampoo with baking soda and vinegar because someone told me it would soften the perm. It fizzes
and foams like a science fair volcano, but when I’m done blow-drying my hair is still horrible.
I hear giggles from Jake’s room, pull on a bathrobe, and crack open his door to inspect. Michael and the kids are on the floor
in a circle. In the middle is Homer, wearing a cape fashioned out of a red bandana.
“All hail Emperor Shmalla, of the planet Shmalla, in the galaxy of…”
“Shmalla!” the kids chime in.
As if on cue, Homer, who has been racing in circles, stops abruptly and sits up on his haunches. “Yes, we are here on the
planet Shmalla, where we’ve been granted an audience with the emperor himself, Most High and Revered Shmoo Shmalla.” Michael
is speaking into an imaginary microphone.
“Emperor Shmalla is wearing his customary red Cape of Shmallitude. It is believed that this cape, handed down through generations
of Shmoo Shmallas, gives his royal highness the power to predict the weather, discover hidden Cheerios, and poop anywhere
he wants.”
The kids
secretly wanted me to be.
“Interesting look.” He evaluates my hair like an insurance agent appraising crash damage.
“You don’t like it?”
Michael shifts his eyes back to the stage. “You look like Larry from the Three Stooges. Except female. Just kidding. ”
“You hate it.”
“No, no. It’s cute.
You’re
cute. I’m just not used to seeing you with curly hair. Don’t worry. I’ll get used to it.”
Lucy steps onto the stage and Michael reaches for my hand as our daughter centers herself on the piano bench and raises her
delicate fingers. I glance at my husband’s face and see that his eyes are already brimming. He squeezes my hand harder.
“Remember when she was a baby?” he whispers. “Remember how she tried to play the piano with her feet?”
I want to share Michael’s moment of pride and nostalgia but all I can think about is this calamity atop my head, this stiff
mass of curls and kink. This is not something I can wash out in the shower. I’m stuck with this monstrosity for the next five
months, maybe longer.
Michael does not look directly at me for the rest of the evening. When he talks to me he seems to be addressing my kneecaps.
Caitlin says she wants my “old head back.” Jake cries when I picked him up from kindergarten. I have made a horrible mistake.
Tonight I set the table with the good place mats, the ones I bought at the Hallmark store for forty-two dollars made of heavy
pressboard and laminated to a high gloss. As I set one down at Michael’s place at the head of the table, I notice that it’s
stained, a big oil stain that mars the watercolor skies like a thunderhead. The fat spotted cows are no longer grazing under
a clear blue sky but in the gloom of the approaching squall.
I watch Michael pick at his cornflake-crumb chicken and mashed sweet potatoes.
“Something wrong?”
“Not much of an appetite,” he mumbles.
“Hard day at work?”
“Not really.”
“Is it my hair?” I blurt out. “Just be honest with me.”
Michael puts down his fork and the kids stare at their father and wait for his response, hoping, I’m sure, that he will give
authoritative voice to their own opinion of my devastated head. He lifts the napkin to his mouth.
“Maybe.” He sighs. “You had such beautiful hair, Jules. You’re a beautiful woman. Why couldn’t you just let it alone?”
“It’s a girl thing,” I say, falling back on the lamest of alibis.
“It’s not a girl thing, it’s a mistake.” Michael finally makes eye contact with me. “Oh, Julia, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it
that way. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s okay. You’re right. It was a mistake.” I run my fingers through my hair and hear it crackle. After dinner I take a
very long, very hot shower and shampoo with baking soda and vinegar because someone told me it would soften the perm. It fizzes
and foams like a science fair volcano, but when I’m done blow-drying my hair is still horrible.
I hear giggles from Jake’s room, pull on a bathrobe, and crack open his door to inspect. Michael and the kids are on the floor
in a circle. In the middle is Homer, wearing a cape fashioned out of a red bandana.
“All hail Emperor Shmalla, of the planet Shmalla, in the galaxy of…”
“Shmalla!” the kids chime in.
As if on cue, Homer, who has been racing in circles, stops abruptly and sits up on his haunches. “Yes, we are here on the
planet Shmalla, where we’ve been granted an audience with the emperor himself, Most High and Revered Shmoo Shmalla.” Michael
is speaking into an imaginary microphone.
“Emperor Shmalla is wearing his customary red Cape of Shmallitude. It is believed that this cape, handed down through generations
of Shmoo Shmallas, gives his royal highness the power to predict the weather, discover hidden Cheerios, and poop anywhere
he wants.”
The kids
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