Rebecca read while I cooked her breakfast; there were just the two of us in her house. I hardly ever get to see Rebecca at repose, so this was quite a treat for me, just enjoying the sight of her, my oldest grandchild. After dropping her at school, I drove to Tennessee and Richard, who was waiting for a ride from the repair shop where his beloved Bronco II is having a bit of work done.
My pick-ups included a visit to the vet to retrieve Gypsy. Every year at this time, we get her groomed for the summer. This requires cutting her eight-inch coat down to less than an inch, except for her beautiful white plume of a tail and her cottony top knot. This is how she looked when we first saw her, so it brings back adoption memories for all of us.
Imagine my surprise when Richard walked out with a dog that looked like a big-headed whippet! Gypsy had no hair anywhere; she was shaved down to the skin from her former top knot to her tail. Richard is right; she’s definitely not fat. She’s just a big-boned girl.
It brought back memories of when my mama used to cut my hair, forgetting that on curly hair you can’t cut bangs exactly the length you want them to be. What you envision and what the finished haircut look like are entirely different things. The wet bangs that barely touched my eyebrows when they were first cut became a slight fringe below my hairline as they dried.
It was small consolation to a six-year-old that the hair would grow back, but my bangs did grow. I keep reminding myself of this lesson as I grieve over Gypsy’s lack of hair anywhere -- not even a fringe of bangs over her big brown eyes. What was the groomer thinking?
This put me in mind of the time that Rachel went to her daddy’s house for his visitation week-end and returned as a stranger. There was a knock on the door; when I answered, there stood an adorable little blonde boy, about six-years-old. Who was this child calling me Mama and dressed in Rachel’s clothing? Oh my! It was my beautiful daughter who had struggled to grow hair that her grandpa didn’t say about, “I’ve seen better hair on salt meat.” I tried not to react so as not to make Rachel believe that she wasn’t still beautiful, but I can tell you, I was one mad mom.
Of course, I knew that her hair would grow back; meanwhile, people kept mistaking her for a beautiful boy. This led to drastic measures. My sister who was married to a Hispanic man had had her infant daughter’s ears pierced. I had been afraid of injury to Rachel’s ears when she was an infant, but I figured that my ever- cautious little doll could manage the piercings at the age of six. I had monogram earrings made for her, and off to the piercer we went.
I wonder if they make earrings for Great Pyrenees puppies.