Of Green Hair and Moonglow

A Thousand-ish Words of Memoir

 

     Although my father would have denied it, we all knew that he saw us as extensions of himself. And by “all,” I mean his children and grandchildren, his wives, his women, and frankly, anyone within his emotional grasp, which meant secretaries and clerks and paper boys and ticket takers and friends’ wives and other sundry members of the fan club. However, the knowledge that one had best be an acceptable, outstanding extension rested most heavily on those of us who were connected by blood or vow.

Image – socially enviable, constantly achieving, always-on-top-of-things image - was of critical importance to him. We were moons to his sun, moons to his earth – the quality of our reflected light was an unequivocal statement regarding the brilliance of his radiance, and we could never escape the force that kept us on our appointed paths. He was not unkind, nor a tyrant. He neither commanded nor anticipated perfection. What he did expect was that, subsequent to a careful personal accounting, no one’s tally was in the red.

     This was actually quite a merciful system, given that it allowed my singing voice and compliant nature to add more points to my approval rating than my extra pounds subtracted. For others, it meant that the ability to charm outweighed mutinous flouting of the standards. But even with this sort of “One small moon and a planetary ring will compensate for your lack of atmospheric oxygen” modus operandi, we were still fully expected to adhere to a certain orbit.

About the time both of my boys were in the throes of full-blown adolescence, my father became quite distressed over their hair. He could not understand why I let them choose how they wore it. I hadn’t abdicated parental control as my father believed; I still had to sanction all choices, and the boys thought they had more freedom than they actually did. But since their wishes rarely moved outside my mentally-laid parameters, they were able to feel cool and edgy while I still felt in control.

By the time Joel’s hair had grown to his shoulders, Josh had shaved the bottom two-thirds of his head. This particular combination finally caused Daddy’s I’ve-had-enough-of-this-ometer to overflow.

And so began the latest campaign in what I like to think of as “The War of Papal Aggression,” which both acknowledges “Papa” as his official title of grandfatherhood and nicely describes the overarching relationship between my father and his grandsons.

At family gatherings, he’d circle the boys like an officer conducting troop inspection.  “What is that frigging s**t on your head?” he’d fire. “Why don’t you do something about that hair?”

The boys and I were steadfast in our “it’s our/their heads” position, thanks in some part to their youthful sense of inviolability and in even larger part to our shared genetic material.

But while the three of us held our ground, the Crusade for Respectable-As-I-See-It Hair didn’t subside.

Josh and Joel had begun their own campaign with me. They wanted to dye their hair. I gently explained in my very best “I respect your personhood” voice that there was no way in hell this would ever happen while they lived under my roof, parked their legs under my table, or in any way obtained material or financial succor from me. They persisted – they had adolescent honor to uphold, after all – but we all knew there would be no green or blue or screaming pink hair. And yet, their mutual wish for rainbow heads had a far higher purpose than one might suppose, because in that unearned, unpredictable way that conquests are sometimes made, victory had climbed up my leg and hurled itself into my lap. It little mattered that I didn’t know it yet. It was mine.

The next time we were visiting Daddy and he fired the opening salvo of that day’s Skirmish of the Manes, my response was an offhand, “You’d better be glad I draw the line at dyeing.”

And there, in those shimmering, perfect moments when the words left my mouth and arrived at his ear, I finally recognized the wish for not-found-in-nature hair color for what it was: a gift, the winning defensive maneuver in the Battle of the Boys’ Hair. On Daddy’s handsome face, I could see his fear-riddled version of the possible progression of events: the chemical coloring of the boys’ hair would lead to his public shame, closely followed by a loss of standing in the community, which would in turn viciously yank all opportunity and hope from the boys; this would lead to the eventual heartbreak of finding both boys standing guilty before his court, because earlier having been forsaken by decent folk on account of their green hair, they would have turned to sordid lives of crime, and he – their grandfather, who would recount to the bailiff the times in their youth he implored them to adopt clean-cut, this-young-man’s-going-places coifs - would be forced to sentence them to life in prison for chopping up stolen cars or setting up phony charitable endeavors one too many times, which had all begun, of course, with the flouting of society’s conventions by dyeing their hair while in their teens.

And Fox News would pick up the story.

Suddenly, long hair, partially shaved heads, rooster-ish outcroppings of hair on the top of the skull – these were nothing. Nothing. One might even think of them as desirable were one desperate enough. The threat of one of his grandsons with green hair was enough to end the Conflict of the Contorted Tresses forever.

Nothing, however, not even his death, ended the Campaign of Papal Aggression. I suspect we all still find ourselves creeping to the front on occasion, engaged by the old, dim war cries of a beloved ghost.

Through the years, we all tried, in varying degrees, to be that image that my father so valued. Our familial solar system defined us all; we followed our appointed paths, and for a time, it served us well enough.

Sometimes, though, we moons want more. As beautiful as we might be, whether near and full and low, or distant, delicate crescents, we’re only circling in a pre-ordained path as we reflect the glow of another. We long to compose our own light, to create our own trajectories, to dance and draw breath in our own radiance.

     And finally, some of us, in a tumble of unique, self-determining, orbit-spurning ways, dye our hair green.

 

Author's Note

No particular notes for reviewers. I'm interested in all responses.

Reviews

[Gordon]

I really enjoyed it. I haven't read many stories on here and the ones i've tried to read stalled out shortly after getting the engine running. So that's a compliment, I made it through the whole thing and I actually like it.

The good: I really like the celestial reference made at the beginning and at the end. Beautiful!

The bad: For me, there was a bit too much of the "Respectable-As-I-See-It", "I've-had-enough-of-this-ometer" and "always-on-top-of-things" hyphens. I know it's part of the ranting, which I think is your intention. I like the idea, but maybe it was just one too many or something for me. It could have been the combination of the hyphens and some long sentences that made me come up for air.

Best Line: Sometimes, though, we moons want more. As beautiful as we might be, whether near and full and low, or distant, delicate crescents, we're only circling in a pre-ordained path as we reflect the glow of another. We long to compose our own light, to create our own trajectories, to dance and draw breath in our own radiance.

This is probably the best paragraph i've read in a while. IT'S AMAZING! In the context of your story this last paragraph is a homerun! Nicely done, keep writing.

[emmajoy]

It's amazing what an enormous variety of themes are used in stories and poems on this site. And, this has to be one of the most unique!

Strange how every generation has its 'I must have it or else' and always somewhere in the background there's someone who wags the finger of dissent.

I truly appreciate the style in which you've written, treating the readers as intelligent beings who understand, if not wholly agree, with your wonderfully expressed phrases, paragraphs and all else.

There's real humour in the following: 'I could see his fear-riddled version of the possible progression of events: the chemical coloring of the boys' hair would lead to his public shame, closely followed by a loss of standing in the community, which would in turn viciously yank all opportunity and hope from the boys; this would lead to the eventual heartbreak of finding both boys standing guilty before his court, because earlier having been forsaken by decent folk on account of their green hair, they would have turned to sordid lives of crime, '

Thank you for posting such a thought provoking and entertaining piece of writing.

[Spencer]

Now that you brought it up I am sure I went through similar at home. Dad made it clear men (any male) had to have their hair in a manly cut at all times. In th eday of my youth it was called a crovatis (nearly cut bald with abrupt linings all around. I could not stand it and wore my hair maybe an inch longer which to him was obsene. By the time the Afro arrived I am sure he wwent bananas.

Good stuff. Thanks much for sharing.

[Dezaraye]

Sometimes, though, we moons want more. As beautiful as we might be, whether near and full and low, or distant, delicate crescents, we're only circling in a pre-ordained path as we reflect the glow of another. We long to compose our own light, to create our own trajectories, to dance and draw breath in our own radiance.

And finally, some of us, in a tumble of unique, self-determining, orbit-spurning ways, dye our hair green.

I absolutely love the way that you ended this story. You really drew me in with the classic feel of your words. I love reading stories about families day-to-day living. It's interesting to me. My mom used to make me keep my hair cut short. Now, I have it grown out. I keep it long usually and I love the freedom now to do whatever I want to with it. Although, I draw my own personal line at dyeing, too. :-D

This was a really fun read. You kept my attention the whole way through. Very nice job!

[dilettante1890]

Wow! I can see why everyone is in love with this piece. Totally surprising and unique--hooked me from the first line.

[W. Braid Anderson]

A good story, well written. You like large words, but we all have our foibles. They still flow quite well, not like someone using them simply in order to make an impression, and stumbling over the traces now and then.
I enjoyed reading it. The use of satellites of various types is imaginative, even if you did finish up as the Green Planet!
regards
Braid Anderson

[The Thracian]

I would love to see your aptness applied to something of actual meaning to the rest of the world, in an inoffensive sense if you will. I have to agree with the hyphen remark and would like to add the extensive name calling and derisive thought patterns to the list of things you should watch out for. The hyphens become a small mishap in compare to the other two I find, because you are writing some form of personal text and this implicitly means idiosyncratic styles of writing. However, you aren't writing science fiction so passing off random names for things at times isn't always the best of ideas... This one really threw me off, "Conflict of the Contorted Tresses," as it lead me to question whether or not you were talking about your own hair or that of a girl's head... Also, for the thought pattern remark, just before or during the epiphanic happenstance, you seem to lose your direction in thoughts ruminated by the old man himself as if layering a lot in some kind of a sarcastic jab at how absurd the whole was. I found that kind of unnecessary, however I guess this is to be a good segued, whereupon the narrator and the grandfather find themselves at par. However, look at this one sentence it produced and tell me you didn't need to stop to breathe somewhere:

"On Daddy's handsome face, I could see his fear-riddled version of the possible progression of events: the chemical coloring of the boys' hair would lead to his public shame, closely followed by a loss of standing in the community, which would in turn viciously yank all opportunity and hope from the boys; this would lead to the eventual heartbreak of finding both boys standing guilty before his court, because earlier having been forsaken by decent folk on account of their green hair, they would have turned to sordid lives of crime, and he � their grandfather, who would recount to the bailiff the times in their youth he implored them to adopt clean-cut, this-young-man's-going-places coifs - would be forced to sentence them to life in prison for chopping up stolen cars or setting up phony charitable endeavors one too many times, which had all begun, of course, with the flouting of society's conventions by dyeing their hair while in their teens."

Otherwise, keeping writing I guess.. Like I said, I would enjoy seeing your style applied to other nebulousnesses, unapparent to the rest of the world.. And please don't take any of this too badly, I only mean to help..

[Eagle Cruagh]

The writing is superb !
My philosophical difference actually has nothing to do with
the quality of the story. I don`t think it is anyone`s business
how you raise your children. That said, cut it all off, do as you
please, but do not follow some other person`s dictates.
Great write !
---- Eagle Cruagh

[Edmund DeHart]

An interesting perspective on "paternal-centricity" - can't wait to see what's next!!! Very real, very human.

[[untitled]]

Wow, this is pretty spectacular! Your writer's voice is so poetic in prose it baffles me. It's a welcome change of pace from normal prose language.
I love the second, and second to last paragraphs the most. Your imagery is absolute in beauty and in wisdom.

I love some of the titles you use in this hair dyeing conflict. "Skirmish of the Manes" and the "Conflict of the Contorted Tresses" that is unique/original. lol. This piece was humorous to say the least.

The only thing that I would point out is your use of the phrase "modus operandi." The majority of readers are not going to know what this means, and would probably only serve to be a stumbling block. "The Elements of Style" by Strunk and White have a small section in their style chapter about using foreign words like this. It's confusing to the reader, and can insult the reader, as if the author is showing off. Now, I don't agree with the last part, I wouldn't see it in an insulting way, but I do think that it is confusing and kind of halts the flow of the prose, of which yours is very good.

Overall, fantastic job. I would LOVE to read more of your stuff!