Friday, November 23, 2012
The photograph is old. But the condition is as current as Jesse Jackson, Jr.'s resignation.
As long as I can remember my mother has shown an inordinate concern for the condition of my hair. Usually, its length. To be fair, my father was usually the prime target.
So, when Darrel, Mom, and I got together a week ago to attend a funeral, I knew my head topping would come up at some point. It had been four months since I had it cut.
After the memorial service, we went to lunch at Lew's Coney Island -- one of our family's favorite neighborhood drive-ins. While we were sitting there waiting for our food, Mom kept looking at my hair. I knew what was coming.
"Who cuts your hair?"
Well, that was subtle. Not at all what I had in mind.
I ducked and dodged. "It has been so long since I had it cut, I can't remember who did it."
And then came the shiv. "I was just wondering. I thought it might be my hairdresser. It is cut just like mine."
My Mom. The Subtle Wit. Oscar Wilde could not have delivered a better quip.