Remembering Ma: That One Wednesday

During the summer of 2019, a few short months before my Mom passed away, I returned to my hometown for a visit.  I don’t recall much about the time spent there, save for one small event.  I went with my mom to the beauty shop to meet “the girls”, as she called them.  One of those girls I already knew by name—Susie—because that name was revered like royalty around these parts.  Susie was the woman who did my mother’s hair every Wednesday.  The artist who patiently washed, combed, curled, and teased Ma’s hair every week like clockwork, faithfully constructing the dark bouffant hairdo that was as much a part of my mom’s persona as any other physical trait she possessed on Earth.  

When Ma was sick in 2017 and laid up in the hospital for several weeks, there was only one person she kept nagging at me to call.  I heard it over and over.  “Paul, call Susie.  Tell her I am desperate for a wash!  Call her, Paul!”  And trust me, she said this with as much gusto as anyone who had just spent two weeks in the intensive care unit clinging to life could ever muster.  So I did my son-ly duty and texted Susie.  I let her know Ma was crying out for her, desperate to—as she said so often to me during that particular hospital stay—feel pretty, like a woman should feel.  Susie and I had several exchanges, and if memory serves me correctly she eventually made her way to the hospital to tend to her most vociferous customer.  No extended hospital stay could break their bond, or at least it wouldn’t if Ma had her druthers.  

So you see the importance of Susie and “the girls” in my mom’s life.  In Lewiston, the small town of 3,000 people where she lived forever, the beauty shop was easily my mother’s favorite weekly getaway.  It was a social hour for her, a chance to catch up on the gossip and kibitzing.  But perhaps most importantly, it was the place where she felt taken care of.  Cathy’s Hair Port was where Ma felt pretty, like a woman should feel.  

For years leading up to that summer, Ma had been planting the seed.  It was almost like a dying wish.  “Paul, you have to meet Susie.  You will love her!  Just come with me to the beauty shop sometime.”  I heard this plea for so long, but since I lived so far away and visited so infrequently, it was more a pipe dream for her than anything.  Or at least it was up until that final visit.  

Tuesday night arrived.  Ma made one more last-ditch attempt.  “I know you don’t like to get up early, but I will be over at the beauty shop in the morning around nine.  Maybe after you get your coffee you can stop by?  Come on, Paul,  Susie would love to meet you!”  

I gave no affirmation, but I knew what needed to be done.  Wednesday morning came.  I grabbed my hot americano at The Orange Cat Cafe and took a stroll to the beauty shop a few blocks over.

There I found Ma in the chair, appropriately bibbed.  Her normally huge black hair was wet and flat, and surprisingly short.  When I walked in, her whole face lit up.  “Paul!  Everyone, this is my son Paul who lives in San Francisco!”, she beamed.  I gathered quickly that everyone in that room knew my whole story without me having to say a word.  The small circle of knowing smiles said as much.  The beauty shop was obviously where all of my laundry—dirty or otherwise—got aired weekly.  But I didn’t care.  This wasn’t my domain.  It was Ma’s.  And my arrival had given her some extra life.

Once inside those hallowed halls I took a quick scan of the small, cozy space.  Cathy’s Hair Port was exactly as I imagined it would be.  It smelled faintly and inoffensively of hair product, a little shampoo and a little chemical, and you could barely hear the low humming whirr of the hair dryer over the spirited chattering of “the girls”.  The place was buzzing.  And there was Susie, comb and scissors in hand, about to embark on her weekly pilgrimage.  She was a bright, petite woman with long, straight dark brown hair cascading just past her shoulders.   Her warm brown eyes and sweet smile were immediately familiar.  I walked right over to her and we exchanged a long embrace.  Such an honor to finally meet this legend!  I promptly proclaimed Susie the most patient human being on the face of the Earth to deal with my mother every week, and for so many years at that.  This was met with squeals of laughter from all who were present, Ma included.  Susie insisted that she enjoyed it, that she looked forward to their weekly appointments because my mom always made her laugh with her outrageousness.  Right.  You are still an angel, I thought.

I sat down on a chair close to where Ma was being worked on.  I don’t know that I said much for the next several minutes, but then how could I with my mother breathlessly filling in the blanks for everyone?  It all went something like this, delivered in her trademark three-packs-a-day rasp:  

“This is my Paul, the son who used to live in Hawaii!  The one who lives in San Francisco now.  He’s been all over the world, like a gypsy he is!  A real pain in my ass, this one! He’s here for a week, running all over town with his friends.  I barely see him, but he knows when to come home.  Dinnertime!  Right, Paul?  He will always come home for basta sugu, won’t you Paul?”  Every word dripped with unmistakeable pride.  

On and on she went.  It was like a one woman show, a stand-up comedy routine, and the audience was eating it up.  We all laughed periodically at whatever anecdotes she was sharing, filters be damned (Ma always let the dice roll).  While she worked the room, I took a closer look at the woman sitting in that chair.  Ma was almost 74 years old and yet her skin looked so smooth, hardly wrinkled.  She was still thin as she had been all of her life, and her high cheek bones stood out now more than ever.  And though the hair was not yet fully constructed, she looked radiant and at ease.  Ma was clearly in her element.

Through all of this, Susie kept working diligently on her weekly project.   The hair was coming together as always.   Eventually there was a small break in Ma’s little performance, kind of like a short intermission, and so I took that opportunity to say my goodbyes.  I hugged Susie again, thanking her for taking such good care of my mother.  She insisted the pleasure was all hers, which made me laugh with skeptical gratitude.  Judging from the huge smile on Ma’s face during this entire episode, I would say the pleasure was not one-sided.

Once outside, I stood silently for a moment to take it all in.  The sky over the beauty shop was a deep summer blue, with a few wisps of white.  It was warm and quiet, barely a breeze.  So many Wednesdays had already come and gone, but this...this one was different.  A long-anticipated visit to Ma’s home away from home, Cathy’s Hair Port, had unexpectedly provided a missing puzzle piece.  

I saw her so clearly.  She was a proud mother, a hilarious eccentric, a gregarious storyteller, an overwhelming force, a natural comedienne.  Ma was absolutely too much, bigger than life in every way but with a heart that grounded her just enough to keep from crossing the line.  And beneath these complex layers lied one more thing about Ma The Woman, and it was so simple:  She just wanted to feel pretty.  You know, the way every woman should feel.