Download - First Haircut, 1963
University of Northern Iowa
First Haircut, 1963Author(s): Alison TownsendSource: The North American Review, Vol. 287, No. 5 (Sep. - Oct., 2002), p. 25Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25126823 .
Accessed: 17/06/2014 23:35
Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp
.JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range ofcontent in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new formsof scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected].
.
University of Northern Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The NorthAmerican Review.
http://www.jstor.org
This content downloaded from 185.44.78.190 on Tue, 17 Jun 2014 23:35:55 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
JANE MULLEN
lives were nearly over anyway. But they were young,
she suddenly sees, about twenty years younger than she
and Jack are now. She finds she can still see them quite
clearly, both how they were before and how they were
after the accident. So much smaller afterwards, so
shrunken and shriveled, as if all the life had been
sucked out of them, like the bear licking up every last
drop of juice from the carton. Plump,
vivacious Mrs. Serrano who sent Linda
to school with breaded veal sandwiches, and jolly Mr. Serrano, who put raisins in
the meatballs he made for those won
derful spaghetti dinners he cooked.
Linda was their only child and life as
they knew it had ended that day on
Chopsey Hill. Yet they had so many
years to go. How had they managed to
get through them? And?she can't help herself?she
sees the years stretching before her and
Jack, if there had not been an ice storm
last spring, if there had been nothing to warn Billy out of the path of that giant bear paw in the sky. Life as they know it would be over now, too. Jack might
never laugh again, never smile, never
tell a joke. He would have nightmares. (The dreams he had of Billy in the
years following the divorce were bad
enough.) Instead of bursting with pride at this very moment, he would be emp
tied out and licked dry. Jenny would
grieve with him, but it wouldn't be
enough. She has read about these
things, how a couple's response to this
kind of tragedy either makes or breaks
them, how grief must be equal if the
marriage is to survive. Much as Jenny loves Billy, as proud as she is of him, too, she is not his mother, he is not her
son, and Jack would find it difficult not to resent her for escaping.
But he?lucky Jack?never sees what
isn't, only what is. So he is already laugh ing. Billy is laughing. Everyone is laugh
ing, except Jenny, who has missed the
joke that's been told and in any case can't rid herself of the alternate future she has
conjured up. Perhaps it's the Irish
whiskey, but she finds to her horror that
her eyes have filled, and in the midst of
this merry group she feels something like
Cassandra, burdened by visions of disaster no one else could see, those dire prophe
cies she was given in exchange for love.
She gets to her feet and says good-night. The fish
ing brother gives her a warm wink, and Jack lifts his hand as she nears his chair. He takes hold of her hand and absently-mindedly gives it a squeeze. She bends and plants a kiss on top of his head. He's the one
who's had the closest call here. And he doesn't even
know. D
ALISON TOWNSEND
First Haircut, 1963
After my mother died
my long hair became a problem. My aunts braided it at first,
their hands so much like her hands I had to look away from myself in the mirror.
Then there was only my father,
his fingers tangled like splinters in silk. I tried to teach him what I didn't know myself?
Over and under, Daddy; I think you go over and under?
my head bowed so he couldn't see how it hurt.
No matter what I did, I couldn't help out, or show him how she'd bound the tea-colored
strands that sparked stars into glossy ropes
that made me who I was?the girl with long braids that flew out behind her in streamers when she ran.
Most of all, I couldn't lean into his body while he braided, my body swaying with each stroke the way it had with hers. Which was why I agreed
when he said, I'm sorry, honey. I can't get the hang of it.
I think we're going to have to get it cut.
I've never forgotten the kiss of steel
that left me lightheaded, the air cold against my nape, aware I wasn't Rapunzel or Jo March or even Tressy
whose short hair grew when you pressed on her stomach,
but a girl in mourning, carrying lopped-off braids home
in a blue net bag to put away in a secret place, deep in the bottom drawer of the mirrored, mahogany dresser I'd stood before every morning, watching her fingers fly over and under, as she wove the waterfall tight and smooth,
the world she made there safe, shining, whole.
September-October 2002 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 25
This content downloaded from 185.44.78.190 on Tue, 17 Jun 2014 23:35:55 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions