LAURA ‘S HAIR
By Norman R. Beaupré, May 25, 2011
As
she was sitting in the large worn leather chair in
Claudette’s Beauty Salon on Simard Avenue, Laura was
seriously pondering what she was doing there. Why was she
allowing someone, a stranger, to touch her long hair? Not
only touch it but, mon
Dieu, cut it!
The
young woman dressed in a light green smock was unraveling
Laura’s toque and out came the long flowing strands of
steely-gray hair. Laura had never had her hair cut before.
Never! Trimmed, yes, but not cut. Not in her entire life.
Laura’s hair had always been her mark of
distinction, sa
marque de femme. Her
sister, Louise, had red hair growing up, and even retained
the soft red color in her later years, but Laura’s hair was
auburn. Of course, they had turned gray in her fifties, but
everyone remarked how lovely the long hair was, even now in
her mid-sixties. In spite of wearing her hair in a toque,
because it was neater, plus
propre, that
way, she still liked to look at her long hair at nighttime
when she got ready to go to bed. How many times her
grandchildren had asked her to unwind her toque just so
they could look at her long hair. They always admired her
hair when they saw the long strands flowing down her back.
Oh, mémère!
they use
to say. Every time.
Laura had always worn her hair long, and her mother had
spent long hours brushing it so that the kids at school
would not laugh at her if her hair happened to be
disheveled that day. Her mother saw to it that every
morning Laura’s hair was brushed. Laura’s hair, bright
auburn hair that resembled an autumn sky toward evening.
Later on, she started wearing her hair held up with lovely
combs that she kept for holidays and special events. She
had bought some special ones for her wedding when she
married George. With five children to take care of, she had
started wearing her hair in a toque. She did not have time
to bother too much with her hair, but still she enjoyed
having long hair, sa
marque de femme.
Now she had to separate herself from her long strands. Her
nape would be exposed, bared. It’s true that with the toque
she had revealed the back of her neck, but, at night, when
she usually brushed her long hair and looked in the mirror,
she no longer felt bare at her nape, for then she saw the
long hair flowing down to her buttocks. And she liked that.
It wasn’t that she was being forced to have her hair cut,
not forced, but convinced by her younger daughter’s pleas.
Lina Marie had been after her to get a new style, more in
vogue with the latest fashion. She had assured her mother
that caring for long hair was a lot of work and besides,
old people with long gray hair looked démodés,
old fashioned. But, that’s why she had tied it in a pleated
bun and made a toque, she told herself. After all, she
looked clean, saved money on ever changing hair styles and
beauty parlors, and still kept the luxury of long hair.
Nevertheless, her daughter thought that a toque, for a
woman in her early sixties, made her look older than she
actually was, a real mémère.
“I am a grandmother,” had insisted Laura. “But you don’t
have to look like one,” was Lina Marie’s response. What
does a grandmother look like? had mused Laura. Why do
people like to brand others, make them feel out of sorts?
Why do they want to make others in their own image? Don’t
they realize that people have certain things, certain
values that they cling to, must cling to, in order to make
sure that they aren’t overtaken by change? These are all
things that ran through Laura’s mind. Besides, I know that
one has to get used to change, she thought. Not fall apart
on account of it. That’s why important things in
life, les
choses importantes, help
one to adapt to change. Things that make me who I
am, moi,
Laura, cannot change, truly change. It’s like telling me
that a bird must change its song or that a cluster of
lilacs is bound to change shape and color because times
change, argued Laura to herself.
Sitting there waiting for the beautician, Claudette, Laura
fingered the bottom of her long hair. Her thoughts tumbled
back in time and flowed like the receding tide of the ocean
at Goose Rocks Beach at which she so often marveled every
time she felt the moist sand between her toes. She loved
the ocean and the long sandy beaches in her part of the
world. She remembered her own youth, a time of joy, hard
work and family get-togethers. She envisioned, once more,
the fragrant orchards in springtime, the orchards her
father owned on Simard avenue. That was her maiden name,
Simard, a name she carried until her marriage to George.
She also remembered the faint smile on her mother’s face
when she reminisced about her land back home in
France, la
douce Normandie.
Laura’s mother usually maintained an austere look on her
face. Laura never knew why. Perhaps because she suffered
from a strict self-discipline when she was growing up. Some
people in the know called it Jansenistic tendencies.
Whatever they were. Laura was glad that she did not know
nor suffered from that kind of straight-lace discipline.
Laura had not forgotten her youth, especially the years
when the awkward beauty of a fourteen year-old begins to
mellow into grace and charm. Yes, she had learned to flow
from one stage of life to another, maintaining the subtle
awareness of her inner feeling of beauty, and her long
flowing hair had become her symbol and assurance of that
sense of being beautiful. Her hair, her long, beautiful
auburn hair, full of body with loose curls, was as
manageable as soft dough. She could do anything with it,
well, almost anything she wanted to. Thick, rich in color
and shining like the mane of a healthy young mare out in
the orchard, that was her hair. Laura’s hair was the
striking feature that many people, like her father,
noticed. Her father had long called her,
ma rousse, my
redhead, a name she did not mind, for her hair was quite
reddish when she was in her teens. Of course, she much
preferred the name her sister, Louise, had given
her, ma
jument, my
mare. Laura had interpreted that to mean as free as a mare
running in the open fields, and as striking as the prancing
chestnut sheen in the morning sun. She loved her hair and
had even bought herself a beautiful tortoise shell comb to
put in her hair that her mother thought was a waste of
money, du
gaspillage.
At fourteen, for her very first sitting for the
photographer,Lemire, Laura had chosen to comb her hair
toward the back firmly but loose enough to reveal the soft
curls and the natural resilience of her hair. She had tied
a slender dark blue ribbon with light blue thin lines on
the edges in the shape of a bow, and had pinned it modestly
to the back of her hair in order to enhance the sailor-like
outfit she was wearing. Caressing the nape of her neck were
large spiral curls just enough to give her a youthful look,
and not the appearance of the worldly adult, so as not to
be called, mondaine.
It was at that very sitting that she had first worn her
gold watch tied to a very narrow ribbon around neck. The
ribbon dropped down to her gentle bosom where the watch was
pinned slightly under the open lapels of her white
sailor-coat. The watch was an Elgin and carried an
engraving of some kind of a hunting horn with scrolls on
both sides when the watch was closed. Attached to the ring
above the winding knob was a small gold chain with a tiny
whistle in the shape of a hunting horn. She loved her watch
because it made her look dignified and grandette,
grown-up. She saw herself as a young lady to be esteemed,
already self-assured and self-confident. Laura’s mother had
noticed the gleam in her daughter’s eye and realized that
she had suddenly grown up without her really noticing it.
Was it the watch? No, it was the way Laura had done her
hair, somewhat sophisticated yet still a young girl of
fourteen.
Laura had three brothers and an older sister, Louise. The
young men had rather nice hair, but nothing to compare with
Laura’s hair. Louise had bright reddish hair but thin and
quite unmanageable. Her hair resembled that of a cheap
doll, so Louise had said. How she envied Laura’s hair. Both
the mother and the father had lifeless hair, flat and dull.
So, where did Laura get her hair? people wondered. No one
seemed to know. The father had made reference to his side
of the family. His mother, Sophie, had auburn hair but she
kept it tight around her skull so that there was no body to
it. Laura liked to hear about her grandmother, her aunts
and uncles who lived in St-Hyacinthe in the province of
Quebec, although she had never visited them. The father did
not have a car, and the train was too expensive for their
modest means. However, Laura felt that she belonged to a
large family of relatives that were called
Canadiens,
and she knew that she was different from the Irish, the
Yankees and the Polish who lived in her neighborhood. She
found out about her Canadian relatives when her mother, her
father, aunts and uncles got together on Sundays to discuss
the family, défricher
la famille ,they
called it. That’s how she found out about their names and
the towns where they lived such as, Ste-Christine,
Victoriaville and Roxton Falls.
Laura had been raised as a dutiful child and had never
rebelled against her parents’ wishes and their rules. Every
child grew up with a set of rules which guided their every
move and desire. All families had similar rules handed down
from generation to generation of Canadiens
established
in New England. Laura learned that all these people had
migrated from Canada to find work. She received little
formal schooling, but she knew how to conduct herself as
a demoiselle,
use her common sense and learned enough French and English
to be able to read and write without making too many
mistakes. She was proud of herself, proud of her family and
proud to be une
Canadienne like all
the women and girls in her neighborhood,
son voisinage.
Laura’s father, a stone-mason, was considered a good and
reliable worker, a cut above the ordinary mill workers.
Furthermore, he owned a large apple orchard on top of the
hill that people called, s’a
côte. Most
families had pulled through the Great Depression but there
were some who were still struggling to make ends meet, and
they called it tirer
le diable par la queue, living
from hand to mouth. Laura’s mother, like most mothers,
worked from morning ‘til night just to ensure a quality of
life for the family that suited them, and met the needs of
each and everyone. She sewed, she mended, she washed, she
scrubbed, she cooked, and she did the grands
ménages twice a
year, both spring cleaning and fall cleaning. Laura herself
had learned to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Everything
in her house was clean and spotless, especially when
Monsieur
le curé came for
his annual parish visit in the spring.
Laura had met her future husband, George, when she was
seventeen. She liked George and his family. Unfortunately,
his mother died a year after they travelled from
Trois-Rivières to Maine. George started working in the mill
at thirteen, barely able to reach the bobbins on the
spinning frame. They provided him with a small stool. Later
on, after he was married, he would become a loom fixer, a
job that most mill workmen envied. George cut a handsome
figure when he was all spiffy and dressed up with suit,
knotted tie and wearing his derby hat. Girls used to turn
around just to have a better look at him. Several weeks
before her wedding, Laura had worked long hours cutting and
sewing her long, dark crushed velour skirt, and had put in
much time in selecting a fashionable Gibson Girl silk
blouse with leg-of-mutton sleeves, high collar with
overlace and a gathered bodice with miniature satin bows.
However, her clothes alone were not sufficient to give her
the look that she wanted. It was her hair that gave her
that womanly look, regal and fashionable. Everybody told
her so, even her mother who never liked her daughter
primping over her hair. Laura could see in her imaginary
eye the wedding photo with her husband sitting in an ornate
chair while she stood next to George, erect and poised with
her left hand on the serge shoulder of her husband.
What with five children, a household to manage and the
washing, baking and cooking, Laura did not take the time to
fuss with her hair anymore. Besides, she had taken on extra
baking for people who did not bake cakes and pies, or, at
least were not successful at it, and she baked twice a week
for them. She was able to supplement her husband’s income
and buy shoes and copybooks that her children needed every
so often.
Laura recollected the birth of her firstborn, René, whose
hair was strong and lustrous revealing reddish hues in the
light of the sun, but it wasn’t his mother’s hair. She
remembered how happy she had been at the birth of her first
daughter, Blanche. The tiny girl’s dark hair, unlike that
of little René, was full of curls. Then came Robert whose
hair most resembled Laura’s hair, auburn in color and with
waves that would last throughout his lifetime. The other
two sons, Raymond and Conrad, were born with nice enough
hair but had very little luster and no body to it. Then
came the last child, Lina Marie, an intelligent child whose
hair was rather straight and lifeless. The poor child’s
hair would become her own constant grief throughout her
childhood days because there was nothing the mother could
do with it. Neither comb nor brush nor curling iron, not
even patient prayers under the mother’s breath had
succeeded in giving Lina Marie that well-groomed look. In
certain quarters, the poor child had even been branded, at
times, une
pouilleuse, even
though the child never had lice. So the mother had cut Lina
Marie’s straight hair, Dutch boy style, en
balai. Laura
was so very disappointed that neither of her daughters took
after the mother, for neither one had beautiful auburn,
wavy and lush hair.
Laura remembered when her own hair had the feel of silk and
honeyed satin. Most of all, she remembered how proud she
had been of her hair throughout her lifetime up to now. She
had something that other people could not buy and could not
have, even though they tried lotions, creams and other
products at beauty parlors. They just could not change
things. A girl’s hair was God’s gift, du
bon Dieu. Some
of Laura’s memories had paled with time but those of her
hair had never lost their luster. They had remained bright
and filled with warmth for they brought joy to the heart.
Why, then, was she having her hair cut? What benefit to her
sense of pride would that bring? What made her do it? It
was too late now for they had already been cut and washed.
Suddenly, Laura was jolted out of her reverie as the
hairdresser came back to check if Laura’s hair was dry
enough. It wasn’t. Laura fell back into her chair and
returned to her musing, as the noise of the dryer lulled
her into the tumble of time. She thought of her own
grandmother, mémère
Delphine, who
had lived
with them for a short while until she went back to Canada
because she was lonely and missed her own neighborhood and
friends back home, chez
nous, as she
called it. Home was home after all, Laura thought to
herself. It’s a place where you belong. Laura knew that she
belonged in the States since that was her home. Her parents
came from Canada, but she was a U.S. citizen, born and
raised here. She liked her relatives in Canada but she
never thought of going there to live. Even though she
considered herself to be une
Canadienne, like
the rest of the migrant population of le
Petit Canada, she
did not identify with people across the northern border.
Her home was Maine and she wanted to stay here where things
felt right. She enjoyed being part of a group of people who
shared similar cultural traits and similar values such as,
language and ways of being and living, but she was
not une
Canadienne de souche, a
French-Canadian rooted in the québécois soil.
The sudden shutting off of the hairdryer drew Laura back to
reality. She looked around the room trying to find friendly
faces. Then she saw her daughter glancing at her. Lina
Marie smiled obligingly at her. “You’ll see how pretty
they’ll make you look once they’re done with you,” she
said. The hairdresser took Laura to another room, sat her
down and began to comb her hair. She methodically and
adroitly styled Laura’s short hair while, at intervals,
chatting with Lina Marie about trivial matters. It sounded
like chatter to Laura. She wasn’t used to that kind of
talk. Besides, she wanted to get the whole process done and
over with. Laura saw herself in the mirror and shuddered
inside herself where her heart seemed to tremble at the
thought of no longer having long hair. That’s not me, she
muttered under her breath. That’s not really
moi.
The room was filled with chemical scents that overpowered
Laura’s breathing. She could not wait to get out of there.
“It’s getting warm in here,” she told her daughter, “too
warm for me.” “Okay, ma
chère,” said
Claudette, “do you like your new looks?” Laura took one
look in the mirror and smiled at her rather complacently.
“I guess it will have to do,” she answered her. “Now, isn’t
that much better, ‘man’
”? added
Lina Marie. “You won’t have to fuss so much with your hair
anymore. All you’ll have to do is come to the beauty parlor
once in a while. That’s easy enough, don’t you think”? Lina
Marie got up and examined her mother’s hair. “Now,
‘man,
you’re really in style, à la
mode.” “I
suppose so,” acquiesced her mother. “I suppose so.”
Laura started looking for her handbag. She paid the
hairdresser and began to walk toward the door. She did not
stop to look at herself in the large mirror. “Let’s go,”
she told her daughter. “Let’s get out of here.” As she was
walking through the doorway, Laura felt a slight chill at
the nape of her neck, as if her entire body was suddenly
bare. She told her daughter that she would have a hard time
adjusting to short hair like getting used to things and
discomforts. Things that made her feel not quite right.
Lina Marie told her mother, “You’ll get over it because
your long hair was just a bother.”
Laura’s eyes adjusted to the brightness of the outdoors. A
young girl crossed Laura’s path. It was Aline Letouneau,
Ti-Pite’s youngest daughter. She recognized her. She had
long jet black hair with tiny ringlets when her forehead
was moist from playing too hard in the sun. Laura stopped
and stared reverently at Aline. “Come on,
‘man,”
said her daughter, “we have things to do.” “Yes,” replied
her mother, “but I was just wondering.” “Wondering about
what”? “Did you know that they shaved women’s hair during
the war. Just because they wanted to shame them?” “What a
strange thing to think of,” replied Lina Marie. “Your
grandmother’s cousin’s hair was shaved off, you know. It
happened in France, in a small village just because they
said she had collaborated with the Boches,
the Nazis.” “What a terrible thing to do to a woman,”
answered Lina Marie. “Yes, and my mother said that the poor
woman wasn’t even to blame.” “I’m sure her hair grew back,”
replied the daughter. “Yes, everybody’s hair grows back,
but it’s never quite the same.” “Don’t worry,
‘man,
you don’t want yours to grow back, do you? It’s such a
bother.” The two of them crossed the street in silence. The
voices of the children playing in the streets resounded in
the air like voices in flight. Like seagulls screeching in
your ears.
Norman R. Beaupré, May 25, 2011
.