“You know, Mom, that is really weird,” my kid said to me while pointing to the framed braid hanging in our upstairs hallway. Even though I had never seen a framed braid anywhere other than its previous location — the upstairs hall of my parents’ house — I never gave my hair a second thought until my kids kindly pointed it out.
Of course, unlike them, I was deeply familiar with its backstory.
As the long awaited first girl after three boys, I held a privileged position in the family. My brothers mostly doted on me, and my parents were pretty much putty in my young hands. I just wanted to be with mom and she, in turn, could indulge in the fun of finally having a daughter. Not only did I get pretty dresses from Youngland’s, the nicest children’s store in Portland, but I had my long hair, which mom laboriously washed, detangled and brushed. By the time I was in first grade, I could sit on the ends of it — on those rare occasions when I was allowed to wear it loose. Otherwise it was in a long thick braid. On special occasions she would carefully coil it atop my head like a crown and I really was a princess.
Things change. My longed for baby sister was born when I was 7. Mom now had five children to look after and caring for my hair took a lot of time. The hairdresser hesitated before cutting it off, but we firmly told her to go ahead. In a flash it was gone. Mom whisked the braid off to a framing shop and a few weeks later, there it was, all 15 inches of it preserved under glass. A yellow band of velvet held the top, and a matching bow anchored the bottom. During one eventful year I was no longer the only daughter and youngest child; my braid was gone, replaced by a hairdo that ended in a flip, in the best 1963 style. I also got glasses (horn-rimmed), adorned with a patch to correct my lazy eye. I was a mess.
But the braid remained on the wall.
What had Mom been thinking?
In the 19th century it was common to include a lock of hair from a deceased loved one in a memorial shadow box. Was my braid an echo of this practice? If so, who was Mom memorializing? It must have been that little girl I used to be. What does that say about the living, older version of myself?
My folks got older and began to talk about what items we might want from the house when they died. I quickly realized two things: I could not keep that braid, nor could I discard it.
Mom developed dementia. She was both present and already lost to us. Hours after my sister called to say that Mom was having trouble swallowing and was sleeping a lot, I was on a flight from Michigan to Oregon; my years working as a hospice chaplain had taught me the warning signs. I got there Thursday night; on Sunday she was dying.
It was Tisha B’Av, the ninth day of the Jewish month of Av, a day of fasting and mourning for the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. It is customary to refrain from getting haircuts for the three weeks beforehand and, as usual, I had forgotten to get my hair cut prior to that. I realized I wouldn’t be able to get my hair cut for a month after Mom died. I was, again, a mess.
I sat beside her for hours that Sunday morning, singing all the songs she liked: songs based on the prayerbook, the old Israeli pioneer songs and her favorite Broadway tunes: “I Feel Pretty,” “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” and “I Could Have Danced All Night.” One song led seamlessly into another. I brushed the hair out of my eyes and found myself thinking, “Mom, could you just hold on another day so I can at least trim my bangs?” I was immediately hit by a wave of guilt: “You’re still pestering her… now?” I added a “Sorry, Mom. Do what you need to do.” Within a few minutes her breathing changed, a pause between each breath — a pattern I knew all too well. The periods of apnea grew longer, she took another few breaths and died.
I found some bobby pins, got the hair out of my eyes and resigned myself to a shaggy look. As I brushed my hair that night it occurred to me that I could grow out my hair and donate it in Mom’s memory. I think she would have liked that. About a year later it was finally long enough to donate. I held that cropped off ponytail in my hands for a moment, slipped it into an envelope and sent it off.
Dad died a few years later and we finally had to face the task of clearing out over 50 years’ worth of accumulation in their house. I brought the framed braid home with me and hung it in my upstairs hallway. My mother’s memorial to the little girl I used to be is now a reminder of how much she loved me.
