and I want you to consider
the people you know
whose hair
you would style
after that person was dead
and embalmed
and cold
I'll wait.
...
...
...
Take your time.
...
...
...
So you probably have come up with one or two, maybe three -don’t punish yourself- three is plenty. If you came up with more than three, there is a new profession awaiting you. But if you're like the other 99.8% of the population and can only think of one to three, or perhaps zero, take heart, that’s about right.
Now, I would like you to consider
whom
of all the people you know
you would elect to style your own hair
after you were dead
and embalmed
and cold.
Well, that should be a quick decision; if you have to think about it that person doesn’t exist.
Here’s the scenario, okay, you’re dead. You passed easily, so it’s not like they have to call in Michelangelo to reconstruct your shattered nose bone. It’s an easy job; the rest of you is fine. I mean it’s no Sweet Sixteen Celebration, no Cotillion, no whatever the term is for a 16-year-old coming out. You’re certainly not glowing.
But you’re fine.
Well, dead-fine.
No major injuries
no smashed bones
and the funeral home has cleaned your hair, okay?
That’s the right thing to do.
But it is the minimum.
No moose, no gel, no root lifter.
In terms of product you’re fucked.
Whom do you call?
...
...
...
Well, you can’t because you're dead.
This is an arrangement you have to pre-plan.
And you have to be careful about a double pact.
Like I’ll-do-yours-if-you-do-mine.
...
I’m gonna give you a second to think about why.
...
...
...
Yeah, because that’s what I did.
twenty-five years ago,
I did the dead girl's hair.
and I did it good.
but now she cannot,
in return,
do mine.
____________
When my family arrived at the funeral home, we were led to my sister's 23 year-old dead body, which lay in a lovely cherry-wood casket at the far end of a long room. The next day there would be hundreds of people lined up to see her dead body. We did not rush to cross the room. In fact, my dad actually told us all to stop for a second, and the four of us held hands in the smallest saddest circle you have ever seen, and my dad may have said a few words. It may have been a prayer. I don't remember.
Here’s the scenario, okay, you’re dead. You passed easily, so it’s not like they have to call in Michelangelo to reconstruct your shattered nose bone. It’s an easy job; the rest of you is fine. I mean it’s no Sweet Sixteen Celebration, no Cotillion, no whatever the term is for a 16-year-old coming out. You’re certainly not glowing.
But you’re fine.
Well, dead-fine.
No major injuries
no smashed bones
and the funeral home has cleaned your hair, okay?
That’s the right thing to do.
But it is the minimum.
No moose, no gel, no root lifter.
In terms of product you’re fucked.
Whom do you call?
...
...
...
Well, you can’t because you're dead.
This is an arrangement you have to pre-plan.
And you have to be careful about a double pact.
Like I’ll-do-yours-if-you-do-mine.
...
I’m gonna give you a second to think about why.
...
...
...
Yeah, because that’s what I did.
twenty-five years ago,
I did the dead girl's hair.
and I did it good.
but now she cannot,
in return,
do mine.
____________
When my family arrived at the funeral home, we were led to my sister's 23 year-old dead body, which lay in a lovely cherry-wood casket at the far end of a long room. The next day there would be hundreds of people lined up to see her dead body. We did not rush to cross the room. In fact, my dad actually told us all to stop for a second, and the four of us held hands in the smallest saddest circle you have ever seen, and my dad may have said a few words. It may have been a prayer. I don't remember.
An then we continued across the long room. I and my little sister, gripping each other's hands, walked ahead. My mom and dad let us, and they fell behind a few paces. I don't know why it went like that. I don't know why the 20 year-old and the 16 year-old led the way. But we girls were on a mission. We were going
to fix
her
earthbound
earthbound
hair.
it was lax
clean and straight
as we had asked of the funeral home
sure that they would get it wrong
sure that they would get it wrong
don't style it
don't interfere
don't do anything
just wash it.
There had been blood
of course
I don't know what shampoo you need for that.
I didn't then
and I don't now.
They did as we asked.
no styling
no interference
no anything.
it was clean.
it looked horrible.
don't interfere
don't do anything
just wash it.
There had been blood
of course
I don't know what shampoo you need for that.
I didn't then
and I don't now.
They did as we asked.
no styling
no interference
no anything.
it was clean.
it looked horrible.
my parents caught up and took it in.
they did not notice her horrible hair
--of course they didn't--
it was their firstborn child
they were not thinking of styling products
curling iron!
I called out
I called out
to no one
to everyone
and a curling iron
I had.
I had.
I was subtle.
It was the nineties
but she had long passed the days of big-hair
plus I was twenty
I understood
understated
I would be as
understated
as undertakers
...but with a curling iron.
understated
as undertakers
...but with a curling iron.
we-
little (16) sister and I-
also took on
The Final Outfit.
I mean,
no pressure,
it's just the last thing
your sister will be seen in
she's 23
-or was-
so it's not like
clothes don't matter.
I mean,
her credit card bills
were forwarded to my dad
-eek-
I was there that day
he was pissed
was it the amount owed?
or that
The Limited
Express
The Gap
couldn't be a little more sensitive?
it took forever
as I recall
picking out
her casket-clothes
picking out
her casket-clothes
nothing worked
we landed on a denim jumper
and a charcoal grey high-neck ribbed sweater.
it was the nineties.
she was going to be
an elementary school teacher
and this was a good look
for that
and for a body
found
in a car
that had been bulldozed
by another car
at 90 mph.
it was the nineties.
she was going to be
an elementary school teacher
and this was a good look
for that
and for a body
found
in a car
that had been bulldozed
by another car
at 90 mph.
Guests at the funeral
would think,
did think,
did think,
that she was wearing clothes she'd already owned
we were very proud of that.
when we checked out
the cheerful check-out girl said,
"ooh, cute. is this for a special occasion?"
we were like,
"yeah."
or maybe it was
"no,"
or maybe
"they're casket-clothes for our dead sister."
something like that.
____________
my younger sister lives in Europe now
we were very proud of that.
when we checked out
the cheerful check-out girl said,
"ooh, cute. is this for a special occasion?"
we were like,
"yeah."
or maybe it was
"no,"
or maybe
"they're casket-clothes for our dead sister."
something like that.
____________
my younger sister lives in Europe now
and my daughter is five
so, my husband will have to pick out my casket-clothes, I think.
sad. so sad.
it will be sad for him, I know,
but it will be very sad for me.
I will try, from the afterlife to whisper in the ears of a few living women friends to:
if you have been following the thread of this blog
you know that I have been killed riding a bike
in Queens, NY
now, if you have read my blogs from the past
then you might recall that for a while
it was the fear of driving off a bridge
and drowning in my own car
but I don't have to drive over water these days
so now it's the bike
always the bike.
my husband will have to identify my body of course
and that will be tough
so, my husband will have to pick out my casket-clothes, I think.
sad. so sad.
it will be sad for him, I know,
but it will be very sad for me.
I will try, from the afterlife to whisper in the ears of a few living women friends to:
“Step Up and Step In! Please help me with this. I’ve even made you a sample script. Feel free to improvise, or use verbatim: ‘Hey, buddy, let me do the clothes. You shouldn't have to do that. I know what she likes and I'd really like to do something. I'll handle it.’ And then please take our shared credit card to Ann Taylor Loft (ever-thrifty, never grand) and have a great time! I love their jewelry. Buy me a necklace; you can’t go wrong. Psst. And while you’re there, grab a little something for yourself. A matching blouse perhaps? No fear of being seen in the same thing at the same time! Bye! Thank you!”
if you have been following the thread of this blog
you know that I have been killed riding a bike
in Queens, NY
now, if you have read my blogs from the past
then you might recall that for a while
it was the fear of driving off a bridge
and drowning in my own car
but I don't have to drive over water these days
so now it's the bike
always the bike.
my husband will have to identify my body of course
and that will be tough
the streets of New York
are not gentle on a person's flesh
or skin.
because of the substantial damage to my body
and because I have been on his end of things,
I know the funeral home will tell my husband
to put me in something concealing
long sleeves
high neck
and this is not the nineties
but I know that this will translate to him as ”turtleneck.”
(I'm omniscient now, but I don't have to be to know this.)
and I know
that the only turtlenecks that I own
are the ones reserved solely
for outdoor cold-weather exercise
and I've had them since the 90s.
two of them,
-I shit you not-
belonged to my deceased sister.
I have no excuse for this
it's totally weird
but I scooped them up
when we gathered her things
from her room at the sorority house
and they have really held up
over the years
(Go, Gap! Well done, Polo!)
I wear them when I go jogging
in cold weather
twenty-five
years
later.
Don't start with me I will cry at your face.
Hard.
that
the turtlenecks in my dresser
date back to the nineties
will mean nothing to my husband.
He will congratulate himself on finding them in the bottom drawer
-under everything else that is acceptable to wear in public or casket-
and deliver two or three to the funeral director with some pants and a couple of sweaters
they will ask him how they should style my hair and he'll cry
they will ask for a picture, which he will dutifully provide and
they will style my long hair so that it looks precisely
nothing
like me
or my picture.
Now, this is my fault.
I should have had this lined up.
I have literally three Amys and seven Jens
who would do this for me
(I think)
I mean, I would do it for you Jen/Jen/Amy/Amy/Jenn/Jenn/Jenny/Jennifer/Jen-jen/Ames
(you can text me if you want it in writing)
For an overly prepared middle-aged woman
this is more than embarrassing
it's unthinkable
I'm going to look
like a Catholic-school religion teacher
in 1992.
my daughter, painful as it is to consider, is going to be alright
my friends and my family will watch out for her
my husband will grieve me, and eventually move on
but, because I didn't have a short and somewhat awkward conversation with a trusted lady friend
my clothes and hair
will suck for eternity
as I imagine it
most of the time
On the edge of my bed, late that night, I told her that I probably wouldn't die for a long time and that I plan to stay with her for as long as possible. I told her that I think we'll all be together again in the afterlife. She wanted to know if there would be talking. I said I don't know.
are not gentle on a person's flesh
or skin.
because of the substantial damage to my body
and because I have been on his end of things,
I know the funeral home will tell my husband
to put me in something concealing
long sleeves
high neck
and this is not the nineties
but I know that this will translate to him as ”turtleneck.”
(I'm omniscient now, but I don't have to be to know this.)
and I know
that the only turtlenecks that I own
are the ones reserved solely
for outdoor cold-weather exercise
and I've had them since the 90s.
two of them,
-I shit you not-
belonged to my deceased sister.
I have no excuse for this
it's totally weird
but I scooped them up
when we gathered her things
from her room at the sorority house
and they have really held up
over the years
(Go, Gap! Well done, Polo!)
I wear them when I go jogging
in cold weather
twenty-five
years
later.
Don't start with me I will cry at your face.
Hard.
that
the turtlenecks in my dresser
date back to the nineties
will mean nothing to my husband.
He will congratulate himself on finding them in the bottom drawer
-under everything else that is acceptable to wear in public or casket-
and deliver two or three to the funeral director with some pants and a couple of sweaters
they will ask him how they should style my hair and he'll cry
they will ask for a picture, which he will dutifully provide and
they will style my long hair so that it looks precisely
nothing
like me
or my picture.
Now, this is my fault.
I should have had this lined up.
I have literally three Amys and seven Jens
who would do this for me
(I think)
I mean, I would do it for you Jen/Jen/Amy/Amy/Jenn/Jenn/Jenny/Jennifer/Jen-jen/Ames
(you can text me if you want it in writing)
For an overly prepared middle-aged woman
this is more than embarrassing
it's unthinkable
I'm going to look
like a Catholic-school religion teacher
in 1992.
my daughter, painful as it is to consider, is going to be alright
my friends and my family will watch out for her
my husband will grieve me, and eventually move on
but, because I didn't have a short and somewhat awkward conversation with a trusted lady friend
my clothes and hair
will suck for eternity
as I imagine it
most of the time
 |
| This is the Gap turtleneck that belonged to my deceased sister 25 years ago. This photo was taken four days ago on Wednesday. |
Epilogue
On Tuesday, Katie Lu couldn't (didn't want to) sleep and so she came in to my room to talk about death. She would never try this with Sheffield. Not that he wouldn't discuss a difficult topic with her, he simply does not tolerate her getting out of bed. I'm a sucker. And I have promised myself that I would be as truthful as possible with her on the topic of death. And we're in the midst of a deadly global pandemic and I can't sleep either. So. I sat on the edge of my bed and scooped her up into may lap and we talked about death. She said she couldn't stop thinking about her grandparents getting the coronavirus. She wanted to know why Auntie Katie died and where she went. She told me that she didn't want me to die; she wants me to be with her forever. I asked her what was making her think about Aunt Katie tonight (I hadn't discussed this blog post at all.) She just said that it made her sad that Aunt Katie had to die.
Two hours earlier, she stood before me with a handful of coins. She had heard me share that a play of mine is to be published and we had celebrated the good news at dinner. I crouched down to get at her eye-level, and she poured the coins into my cupped hands. "I wanted to give you something good because you tried hard and your play is going to be published." Dear God. Dear, Sweet God.
Epilogue Two
I asked Sheffield to read this post before I shared it widely. (I also gave it to my sister Kelly and offered it to my parents.) Sheffield said, "Okay! Is it about me?" I said, no it's about anxiety and death. He slumped, "okay." I guess anxiety and death aren't as fun to examine as I think they are.
I brought him a cold can of beer and sat beside him on the bed. He laughed, "boxer briefs," (I am always keen-eared for his laughter), read on, drank some beer, then "I- I don't think I can read this." But he drank from the can of beer and read more. "This is about me!" Yes, I said, it's about you a little." "A little..." he repeated. He read to the end. Then he told me where the typos were. That's it? Typos!? "I thought that's why you asked me to read it!" he said. Yes, okay, thank you, but what did you think? "The 'Amy/Jen thing' . . . that was funny." And... ??? He said he thought it was very good but he didn't come off so well.
Well. That's because it's dramatic.
I'm writing the words as they can be, not necessarily as they are.
You readers already know this I suspect, but this writing is not real.
Some incidents are real
Some feelings are real
But then it is packaged up and pruned down
Exactly how I like it.
The writing I do is like acting:
Go to a truthful place and then pretend.
Some bits of truth: I ask Sheffield to pick out clothes for me for my birthday and Christmas gifts because he is very good at it. He sometimes gets my size wrong, but I always love the things he picks out. He is notoriously bad at updating his own style, but he lets me buy him clothes all the time and he wears them and looks good. He is always clean and always smells good. He is very funny and thinks I am funny too. I have fictionalized everything about his perspective on turtlenecks. Until this piece of writing, we have never discussed turtlenecks at all. Sheffield has a great sense of humor, but it's not fair of me to expect him to find anything about my funeral funny. I love Sheffield so much, so much, so much.
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