One time, when I was a teenager, we were visiting my grandparents, and I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. It was nighttime, and walking by my grandparents’ bedroom, I noticed that the door was cracked open. In the bedroom, I saw Granmommie standing in her nightgown. Not the thing you necessarily want to see. But, what stopped me in my tracks was that Granmommie was leaning over brushing her hair. To my shock, I saw her hair, wavy, luxurious, long, reaching almost to her waist. The longest hair I had seen on anyone, ever.
Let me back up. Once retired, my grandmother was a typical little old lady who busied herself taking care of her house, sewing, running errands, enjoying hobbies, helping tend to the garden, putting up vegetables, and other retirement activities. She always had the exact same look. Her silver, slightly bluish-tinged hair was piled on top of her head in a twisty matronly looking hairdo. It never varied. In contrast, when my hair is long, I forever change the way it looks, depending on what I am doing—wear it long, put it in a ponytail, braid it, twist it into a messy bun. Her hair looked the same every day, whether she was out working in the yard, or dressing up to go to church. Same hairdo always. Growing up, I never paid much attention to her hair—it was just the look I expected to see.
What I didn’t expect to see was Granmommie brushing long flowing hair that had been released from its tight straight-jacket hold. I stood in the hallway with my mouth hanging open. The questions fired in my brain. How could she have hair that long? How did all that hair get piled on top of her head? Why didn’t she cut it? How did we not know about this? What other secrets was she hiding?
For the next few days, I stared at her hair. I came from different angles examining it, looking for tell-tale signs of loose strands, unkempt edges, or anything that would shed light on the mystery of Granmommie’s hair. I got no answers. Did I ask her? No. Somehow, I felt like the fact that nobody knew (or, at least I didn’t know) about her long flowing hair was a symbol that it was a secret. Information that she didn’t want to provide. Was it a secret that she shared only with my grandfather in their private boudoir, those rascally kids? Nope. Didn’t want to think about that.
I wondered in practical terms. The fact that she took her hair down at night meant that she could twist, turn, and tuck her hair alone, without the help of a hairdresser. Had a hairdresser given her the original idea, which she then learned to master by herself? Or had she, alone, invented the intricate hairdo? How long did it take to swoop and pin it up? Was it a time-consuming task? Wouldn’t it be easier to cut the hair shorter and have a simpler beauty routine? After all, she was a practical woman who took care of business, nothing whimsical, nothing fancy, nothing showy. For years, she had called me out when my hair wasn’t brushed neatly or dried properly, according to her tastes. Did her long hair factor into those confrontations? I tried to discreetly learn more information, but to no avail. For the rest of her life, I never saw or heard anything else that shed any more light on the great mystery of Granmommie’s hair.
Years later, I still don’t have answers, but I do realize that I attached more significance to the mystery of Granmommie’s hair than she ever did. I no longer think that she was keeping a secret from us. I think her hair was the way it was, she liked it fine enough, but it was not a big deal. I think she had more important things to think about, and she was satisfied with the status quo, so she didn’t go looking for another hairdo that would alter her tried and true routine. When her health started to fail, she was given a short haircut that required little grooming.
But, the lesson that I learned was that things are not always as they seem. There is always more to the story than we see on the surface. Seeing a glimpse of a different side of Granmommie opened up a world of questions, some ridiculous, some valid. My perception of my grandparents, and other family members, came from my own perspective. There was much more to these 3-Dimensional people than I had realized. I have recently been going through family records and other papers that have been stored (hoarded?) for many years. Every day, I come across documents, letters, memorabilia, and other things that make me shake my head and say, “Wow, I didn’t know that.” It’s an extremely interesting, exhaustingly long process. There is evidence that supports old family stories, and there are unexpected surprises which reveal new information.
For instance, I found a very old filing cabinet that contained a large number of folders; folders that had been filed away for decades. One folder was marked ‘GWEN’, and upon opening it, I found only one thing—a magazine article titled “Domesticating Your Wild One,” by John Rosemond. Not sure how I feel about that! I didn't read the article.
But, I do enjoy reacquainting myself with family members who are no longer with us. What I wouldn’t give to be able to ask them directly about the things I have found. Instead, I have to build my own narrative, guessing and filling in the stories where I can. In the grand scheme of things, uncovering the secret of Granmommie’s hair was not a big deal. But, it made me take a step back, then look a little closer, and wonder what else I might have been missing. There was definitely more to the story, and maybe, if I had paid attention, I might have learned more about my family members. Now, I’m putting a lot of time into learning what I can. It’s very satisfying and very rewarding. My advice: ask the questions while you still can—somewhere, there’s got to be something you didn't know about, or a good story you’ve never heard before, or some insight into your family that you would be able to appreciate. Just ask.