Restless Hair Day

November 24, 2008

I woke up to find Deborah sleeping on the couch with her two cats keeping vigil—one at her feet, the other just inches from her face. Scattered on the floor were three volumes from a ten-volume set called "The World's Best 100 Crime Stories." Small, hard-bound books in green textured fabric, copyright 1929, and falling apart to varying degrees. There was another one resting, overturned, on the pillow next to her head.

I shooed the cats away and ushered them into the kitchen, where I quietly filled their bowls. Then I set about making coffee, trying not to make any noise— which is nearly impossible.

Whether it was the noise, the smell of coffee, or the sun streaming through the curtains for half an hour, Deborah woke up. She scratched her head, messing up her already messy hair, then pushed it out of her eyes. (She dyed it red yesterday. Another story for another day.)

"I couldn't sleep again," she said.

She didn't need to say it; the ritual had been played out many times before.

The cats had eaten and returned to their posts, waiting for Deborah to get up and give them their morning dose of sweet-talk. Deborah was too groggy for it, though, and their mournful gazes and plaintive squeaks were too annoying to garner any love. "Did you feed them?" she asked.

"Yes."

They each mewed.

"Shut up, you guys."

"Your coffee is in the fridge," I said, getting a cup for myself. (Even in winter, Deborah prefers iced coffee over hot.)

"I had a song in my head all night long," she said, adding ice cubes to her glass. "It was driving me nuts."

"Yeah, that happens to me sometimes. Especially if I've been listening to music on headphones."

"So I'm not crazy?"

I told her a story about when I was a little kid, maybe 10 years old, and went to a block party in Jerry's neighborhood. We lived in a small suburban town, and a block party didn't amount to much; mostly, it just meant setting up a barbecue grill in the middle of the street instead of in the backyard. But the neighbors did splurge on one thing: a jukebox. It was quite a novelty for me—probably the first one I ever saw, or at least the first I ever used. A relic by today's standards, plugged into an outlet in Jerry's garage and placed in their driveway, it housed about a hundred 7-inch singles. Jerry and I kept busy picking out which ones to play.

There was one song in particular that caught our eyes: "My Ding-A-Ling" by Chuck Berry. Neither of us had heard the song before but punched in its code, A-3 or whatever, and waited anxiously to see if it would live up to its promise. Is this it? I don't know. Is this one it? I don't think so.

Several other songs played as we punched the buttons for "My Ding-A-Ling" again and again, waiting. Nothing.

Then, finally.

Hilarious, we thought, and rolled around, holding our guts, laughing and laughing. By the end, we were singing along to the chorus. Before the song even finished, we punched in its code again.

Despite several attempts by adults to reset the selections, the song kept playing on repeat, until our laughter shifted from being about the song itself to its persistence and the annoyed looks on the grownups’ faces.

It's a repetitive song to start with.

That night, lying in bed trying to sleep, the song kept playing in my head. I tossed and turned as it echoed on and on, as if the jukebox was right next to my bed. Over and over, it became less funny until I began to feel nauseous. I couldn't get it to stop. I went upstairs and told my parents I couldn't sleep, struggling to explain why. I asked to sleep in their room, on the floor at the foot of their bed, like a puppy, but they wouldn't let me. Instead, they suggested I sleep in my sister's room—next to theirs—which I did. I can't remember now if there was an extra bed, a cot, or if I slept on the floor; it wouldn't have made any difference—the song haunted me until sunrise.

After sharing the story with Deborah, I was tempted to find the song online to listen and see how I felt about it now, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.

No way.

November 26, 2008

"I'm gonna do it!" said Deborah, with the same determination as when she, just a day earlier, said she was going to leave her hair alone. She had been debating it for weeks, wavering between an ultra-extreme cut and color and a simple trim. If two minutes later she told me she'd changed her mind, I wouldn't have been surprised. I offered my gentle, noncommittal support and repeated what I'd been saying all along, "Whatever you decide to do is okay with me." It only frustrated her more.

"I haven't touched it in six months," she said. "Not since our wedding, and even then I didn't do much. I've never gone this long without messing with it." She ran her hands through her hair, pulled it up into a bun, pushed it behind her ears, combed it to one side, parted it in the middle. "It's really healthy right now. I don't want to mess it up."

She left for her appointment still unsure of what she would come back with but determined to do something. Her hairdresser is a petite Japanese girl whose own short hair is peppered with several longer streaks dyed in unnatural colors, and the Israeli owner’s Shih Tzu is shorn bald except for a single, bright blue ponytail on top of its head, so I wasn't sure what Deborah might get talked into, and I was fully prepared to offer powerless reassurance through several weeks of regret.

In the end, though, her only regret was how conservative the change turned out to be.

"It's not that different," she said, clearly disappointed. "I didn't want to be that girl."

"What girl?"

"You know, that girl. You see her on the subway all the time."

I had no idea what she was talking about — still don't — but told her not to worry, she wasn't.