 A Series About Childhood Memories |
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owns up to The Great Hair Harvest |
 Little Gina with her Dad, a Chicago police officer. She would grow up to be a Chicago cop, too. |
It made sense: Dad needed hair,
so Gina would find some for him
By GINA GALLO
of TheColumnists.com
BLAME IT on the birth order.
In most families, the youngest kid is usually the designated
scapegoat, punching bag, and sucker. As the youngest in my family,
I know this from experience.
There were five years between my brother and me, another year
between him and my sister. And just to make it interesting, I
was also the youngest of our extended family--more than a dozen
male cousins who all lived within a two block radius.
Youngest kids hardly ever quibble about the way we're treated,
mostly because we're grateful just to be included. Which may
be why I didn't think to complain when my brother used me for
second base (the actual base, not the player.) Or why I didn't
argue when my sister played "Salem Witch Trials"--a
creative game of her own device that involved tying bricks to
my feet and tossing me in the local park's pool to see if I'd
float. Luckily the pool attendant fished me out in time, more
because he didn't want a filter clog than any attempts at heroics.
He was probably an older child, too.
With my five-year handicap, I believed everything my siblings
said. Considering the torture, abuse and derision they lavished,
why did I hang on their every word? Because they had worldly
experience. They got to cross the street alone, stay up later,
and, in my eyes, were smarter and had more fun. I accepted any
crumbs of attention they tossed me, anything that meant I'd be
included in their golden circle. Knowing this, the kids in my
family made lying a higher art form.
When I was four, they told me the foil wrappers from Juicy Fruit
gum could be turned in, melted down and resurrected as a new
car. That's where yellow cars came from, my brother said. Jimmy
substantiated this preposterous idea by walking me past the Wrigley
Gum Company, located just a few blocks away on 35th and Ashland.
Pointing to a yellow Lincoln in the parking lot, he nudged me.
"See? And that green car in the corner? Doublemint wrappers."
It made perfect sense. And since my father's old Nash Rambler
was in its death throes, it seemed like a photo op. I'd surprise
the family with a new station wagon. For one entire summer, I
scoured the streets, parks and alleys for old gum wrappers, collecting
almost a shopping bag full before my mother found out, and set
me straight.
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My sister was more scientific. Jan maintained that chopped worms gave fig bars their gritty crunch, and that you should tape your nostrils shut at bedtime so poisonous spiders didn't crawl up your nose. After one convincing monolog about the sun's positive effects on hair growth, she encouraged me to stand behind my father while he napped on the patio chaise and hold a magnifying glass over his bald spot.
With an eye on my fair skin, she also convinced me that tea bags were the best way to get a tan--any time of year. Float a box of those babies in a tub of hot water, submerge yourself for 20 minutes or so and--voila! Instant Hollywood tan. Look what tea did to plain water, she reasoned. Since the human body is almost 90% water, why wouldn't I turn brown? Luckily, there was parental intervention before I drowned.
A cousin once suggested I contribute to our family's food supply by digging up the onions in a neighbor's yard. Seventy-five imported Dutch tulip bulbs later, the outraged neighbor presented me, my shovel and a hefty bill for damages to my astonished mother. Since this was shortly after an attempted bacon grease car waxing for our Rambler, (they told me it was Turtle Wax) I hovered near the top of her 'endangered species' list for weeks.
Nothing was sacred. Even family picnics were subject to preposterous tales--especially while the adults were busy at the barbecue or setting out containers of food.
"Maggots," a cousin told me, pointing to the elbow macaroni salad. "They swell and curl like that when you add the mayo."
He also informed me that the black char stripes on grilled hot dogs were tracks made by hungry rats, olives were actually gouged eyeballs, and pickle brine came from the commode. My brother was there to back him up, adding that the Italian sausage sputtering on the grill was, in fact, exploded pig guts.
"That's how butchers get the stuff," he said. "The pigs explode, then their guts get hacked up into pieces." Even for a gullible little sister, this was too much to believe. Sensing my doubt, he said, "You don't believe me? Ask Grandma what hog casings are. That's the stuff on the outside of the sausage."
My grandmother was wielding tongs at the smoking grill. When I finally got up the courage to ask, she held up a dripping sausage.
"Pig's intestines," she told me. "The meat is stuffed inside." It could only mean one thing: My brother was a genius.
Which is why I believed him when Jimmy explained the concept of 'hair harvesting.'
Because he knew everything, I had no reason to doubt him. It was one of those secrets only men know about, he told me. Walking past the barber shop, he pointed to the window.
"Watch what happens," he told me.
It was the typical post-haircut ritual. The barber splashed on hair tonic, massaged it in, combed the hair into place. Nothing unusual that I could see. It was when the customer left and the barber was sweeping up that Jimmy elbowed me again.
"See that?"
"What?"
"He's sweeping the hair! And guess what he's gonna do with it?"
"Throw it out?"
"No, dummy. He harvests it."
"What's 'harvest' mean?"
"He collects it to use for somebody else."
I looked at my brother's nose. According to my mother, it twitched when Jimmy lied. So far, it appeared twitch-free.
"He saves it for guys who don't have any. Like Grandpa. And Mr. Kearney at the gas station."
"Like Daddy?" I couldn't imagine my father using somebody else's hair--especially after it'd been swept off the floor.
"Sure. Daddy could fill in his bald spot."
"How does it stay on?"
He huffed in exasperation.
"Don't you know anything? See how the barber sprinkled that bottle of stuff? That's what sticks it to the guy's head."
"But that guy wasn't bald."
"Not anymore." Jimmy sounded triumphant. "See? The stuff really works."
"So how come Daddy doesn't get his fixed?"
"Daddy's a tough guy. Tough guys aren't supposed to worry about how they look."
I thought about my father, the police detective.
"So that means he'll be bald forever?"
"Maybe." Shrugging elaborately, Jimmy resumed walking. "Cops aren't gonna ask barbers about that stuff. But if somebody else decided to get the hair for him, somebody he knew and liked......"
He let the thought hang between us like a limp cowlick. What was he proposing? My father knew me, of course--I was the smallest kid at the dinner table. But like me? Ever since the bacon grease car wax, that point was debatable.
"If you figured it out, how come you never did it?"
"I'm a guy. Guys don't talk about this stuff to each other."
An indisputable point for which there was no answer. Not for a confused five year old, anyway. But by the time we got home, my brother had convinced me. With a little hair harvesting, my father could look like Cary Grant, Marlon Brando, or Ernest Borgnine at the very least.
Never mind that I had no idea who Ernest Borgnine was.
"And just think how happy Mom would be," he told me. "She wouldn't have to worry about him getting sunstroke in the summer."
Another good point. After that tulip bulb incident, brownie points from hair harvesting might get me off her list for good.
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The next day I started making my rounds. Armed with a cigar box, I hit the barber shops--the one on the corner, and the other three blocks over. It didn't matter that I was forbidden to cross busy streets alone. The end justified the means, especially if that 'end' was my father's full head of luxuriant hair.
At first the barbers were puzzled. Suspecting that they might be protective of their own business, I didn't mention my balding father or my harvesting plans, only that I needed something for Show and Tell. LOTS of it, curly or wavy, in any color available. They were still perplexed, but obliging. For a full month they gave me their day's sweepings, a remarkable amount of hair. Enough for a dozen heads, which meant my father had a back-up supply in case the first attempt didn't take. Not only that, but thanks to the variety of shades, he could be a blonde, brunette or redhead depending on his mood. All he'd need was more hair tonic.
In all modesty, I have to say it was one of his best birthday presents. While the rest of the family watched, he opened the usual array of 'father' gifts: the ties, socks and after shave. But even the hand knit sweater from Aunt Nancy, done in an alarming shade of orange, couldn't beat my gift for originality. He'd saved mine, his youngest child's, until last. Holding the box aloft, he shook it slightly, said he couldn't imagine what it was. And never noticed how his son was edging toward the door for a quick exit when the hair hit the fan.
The sad news is that the great hair harvesting project never came to fruition. As soon as the box was opened, mounds of multi-colored hair sprang out. Assuming it was a captive squirrel or worse, our dog went into action Snarling like a rabid terrier, Lucky pounced on the box and dragged it outside where he proceeded to shred it to pieces. Only the hair tonic bottle came through unscathed.
Nobody could tell what the rest of the gift had been, which may have been a good thing. I realized, too late, that my father wouldn't have wanted to discuss bald spots and hair harvesting in front of all his birthday guests. And once the dog grabbed that box of hair, I looked at my brother Jimmy....and his nose was twitching like crazy.
© 2001 by Gina Gallo. The photos are the property of Gina Gallo. All rights reserved.
You can comment on this column or contact Gina Gallo with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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Publisher is Forge/St. Martin's Press and the order number is: |
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