Home: Part 33

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

March 1977

Shannon had gone from dark to light, as though she had turned the sun onto her hair. The hair was shorter, too, no longer at her shoulders but just below her earlobes on the sides. "It was Val's idea," she said. "As soon as I sat in the chair, she said I looked like I needed a change." She pirouetted. "This is how she thought I should look."

"You're a blonde now," I said from the sofa. When she'd first come through the door, I hadn't recognized her.

"Dirty blonde, Val says."

"Short blonde," I said.

She looked at her reflection in the wood-framed mirror we had found at a yard sale. Then she looked at me. "What do you think?"

"Let me touch it," I said. She sat beside me, and I caressed the side of her head, feeling the hair. "It even feels different."

"So?"

"I think I like it," I said.

She leaned into  me. "It's a change, isn't it? That's all."

"First you get me to eat pomegranates, and now this."

She laughed. "I forgot about the pomegranate."

I kissed the top of her head. "It's beautiful. You're beautiful. You would be even if you didn't have any hair at all."

"Like a mannequin?"

"Yeah, but with eyes and a real smile."

"You're sweet. My dad will hate it."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. He's just always said how much he likes long hair on women. That's why my mom never gets hers cut short."

"Well, the hell with him." She brushed her bangs away from her eyebrows.

More Random Thoughts

In the span of about six months not long ago, my three best friends died. Or, maybe it's more accurate to say that three people who had been my best friends at one time or another died. One I saw at the hospital just before he went, in pretty much his own words, to see Jesus. Another thought he could pray his way out of a terminal brain tumor, but it didn't quite work out that way. The other got sick, got better, then went home from the hospital and died in his sleep. I got to carry his coffin to his grave, and then I got to speak at his memorial service. Each of these people had influenced in one way or another, and now they're gone. Death works like that, I guess--the epitome of an equal opportunity employer.

---

Some nights when it's late like this, when everyone one else is asleep, I think I'd like to call one of these friends, even though one of my irrational fears is talking on the phone. Of course, wanting to call a dead person is beyond irrational, so we'll just leave that alone.

What I'm thinking right now is, Who's awake? Who's prowling the internet or reading email or looking through the online TV guide to find something worthy of watching, and who are they thinking about? I'm also thinking that I'd like to have my electric guitar in my hands right now, but the house is quiet, the neighborhood is quiet--everything is quiet but what's bouncing through my little brain right now, it seems.

---

It's one of those times of major changes that lead to certain choices--the road taken, the road not taken.  You know how it is: something happens, and then you start thinking about what you should do, and even how you got to this point in the first place. Maybe you want to tell someone what you're feeling, but you know it wouldn't help you make a decision because it's your choice what you do next.

---

One of my students is a barber, but he wants to be a writer. His essays are good, and he is eager to learn. He has asked for recommendations for people he should read, and I've been liberal in my thoughts. But I've also told him that he could do worse than ignoring what I say, that he should be cautious of what kind of literature think is "good" and is essential to his edification. But I'm vain enough to be flattered, too, because it's rare that conversations in the classroom go beyond an academic fixation with the Oxford comma. Many years ago in my first professional job, I worked with Jim, who was 30 years my senior but who recommended books and authors to read. So, I did. I changed jobs, and Jim retired, and we kind of lost touch with each other. Several years ago Jim's wife called me out of the blue, telling me that he'd died, but that he'd said often that he'd enjoyed working with me. I liked that--more flattery, I guess.

Now, though, it's late at night. I'm wondering who's awake, who's waiting to be called.