His Hair Joann Kielar
My father worked at the H. J. Heinz Company. His day started
at 5:30 a.m. when he grabbed his striped overalls and lunch-bag and walked out
the door. Monday through Friday he headed downhill to East Street, on foot, and
down East Street to the Allegheny River near the 16th Street Bridge
where the factory sat. At the end of his work day, around the same time as the
end of our school day, he walked back through the door, gave his greetings and
kisses, grabbed a beer and plopped down on one of the living room chairs.
The chairs in our living room were almost like porch
furniture. They and the sofa had removable cushions and wooden arms, broad as
those on Adirondack chairs. Dad would set his beer carefully on the
economy-carpeted floor next to him. He’d knock off his heavy shoes to reveal
white socks, stained various colors around the toes from sweating into the
shoes, and put his feet up on the little upholstered stool that matched the
chair. On hot days he might peel off his socks as well, but this was an
unpleasant sight. His toenails were thick and yellow and looked as if they
might curl if my mother had not required him to “cut them things back” before
that could happen. She was tough to please.
Dad was easy-going to a fault, but became even more
compliant after a beer at the end of a work day; I could ask for almost
anything. But I guess it was a bad time to ask for homework help—preparing for
a spelling test, for example.
He would prop the spelling book up on his lap and read the
first word: “ginger.” I would spell the first word: “ginger, g-i-n-g-e-r, ginger.” He would read the next word: “pickle.” I
would spell the next word: “pickle, p-i-c-k-l-e,
pickle.”
I’d wait then for another word. Waiting. Waiting. His head
is bent over the book. “Did I make a mistake?” But he is not seeing the words. He is
sleeping.
Though it was a bad time for homework help, after work was
an especially good time to ask him if
it was O.K. to comb his hair. This was one of my favorite “daddy” games. He never said “no”, perhaps knowing that he
would soon be asleep. “Combing” was a euphemism for all the things that were
about to happen to his poor, sleepy head.
When the perfunctory permission had been asked for and
granted I would run upstairs to my bedroom and grab the paraphernalia needed
for this unwholesome game. After a few minutes of rummaging through my things
I’d run back down the stairs carrying a small plastic vanity set-—comb, brush,
and hand-held mirror—and a little vinyl cosmetic bag with a zipper that held a
multicolored collection of gum-bands, barrettes and bobby pins.
Dad would still be awake, enjoying the last swigs of his
cold Iron City. When the bottle was empty I might ask him to blow into it and
make it toot; he always obliged. Then I’d run the
bottle to the closet under the stairs and fit it into one of the spaces in the
cardboard case that would go back to the beer distributor when full.
Now Dad’s eyes were barely open. I’d climb up onto his chair
and sit behind him straddling his neck, my stocking-feet resting on the roomy wooden
arms of the chair and begin to run the little brush through his hair.
Human beings need sleep. It replenishes. It helps us to
escape the cares of the day and to dream out unresolved conflicts. It may be
part of a complex system of survival that allows our species to reserve energy
and resources. Scientists tell us that humans have a well-developed ability to
sleep through all sorts of distractions and disruptions and yet to awaken,
instantly, when it is important to do so. No wonder, then, that as I began to
brush his hair, my father invariably fell fast asleep. It mattered not if I
brushed smoothly, in long, soothing strokes from the front of his head to the
back, or if I brushed vigorously, as if I were polishing shoes. Instinct told
him that it was best to go right on sleeping.
My father had a wide Polish head with lots of dark, brown hair
that remained thick until he was an old man. I recall the last of his teeth
falling out when I was still a kid, but the hair stayed with him until the end.
Healthy as his hair was, his scalp was covered with a layer of dandruff that
rained down on his shoulders at the least provocation.
Imagine, then, what happened when the brushing began. Great
snowstorms of dandruff would fall from his head. Some landed on his t-shirt and
disappeared into its whiteness. But much of it fell onto the flat arms of the
chair near my feet. I could make little patterns in it with the tip of my toe. Some
of it stuck in his hair and had to be raked out with that end of my comb where
the teeth were small and close together. But this was an unending task for,
like the folk tale of the magic porridge pot, his head provided an unending
supply of dandruff and combing soon became a bore. No matter. The bag of
barrettes had yet to be used.
The edges of dad’s head were useless to me. He may have been
a factory worker, but this was 1959. Men kept their hair well-trimmed whether
they went to work in a white shirt and tie or in overalls. The expansive,
wavy-haired top of his head was my playground. Here I could draw up thick
clumps in my fingertips and wrap them in gum bands or clip them into colorful
plastic barrettes shaped like bows or flowers or little oval lozenges. The
stubborn little short pieces where the top of his head ended and the sides of
his head began could be trapped in place with bobby pins. By the time I added
my finishing touches his head looked like a flea market.
This was when the second part of the amazing human instinct
showed itself. Though he slept through all of the scrubs and yanks and pinnings of my exclusive salon designs, the minute the
smell of dinner came wafting through the air into the living room his eyes
would pop open, and he’d sit up straight in his chair.
“Better get down from there so the chair doesn’t topple
over,” he’d warn. And I would.
Up he’d stand and head off to the kitchen, scattering
leftover barrettes and dandruff on the floor. As I tidied up my beauty shop I
could hear the annoyance in my mother’s voice coming from
the next room.
“Oh, Tom. Get that junk out of your hair. It’s time for
dinner. I don’t know why you put up with that. You’re goofier than the kids!”
I was born and raised in Pittsburgh, have spent most of my
life here, grew up on the Northside and now live in
Lawrenceville where I raised three children. I have worked for many years as a
visual artist, artist-in-residence in early childhood and elementary school
settings and instructor in various art centers and programs around Pittsburgh. I am also a puppeteer and
storyteller. One of my daughters is an accomplished writer and my other
daughter works with Arts Science Prize in Boston, my son writes hilarious
stories and is studying engineering at Penn. My publication history is
practically nonexistent—a long-ago article in the Early Childhood journal Young
Children. I have, on occasion, told stories at The Moth and once won and went
on to participate in the Grand Slam. I head a reading series known as PAGE
which is presented at be Galleries in Lawrenceville and offers local writers an
opportunity to read a one page work from any genre to an enthusiastic audience.
I love short forms—memoir, short story, essay—and have no aspirations to write
a novel. My family is the inspiration
for much of my work.