Monday Morning Faith (9 page)

Monday afternoon, I went to my office and booted up the computer. Nelda dropped by, wearing her coat, high-heeled brown leather boots, and one of those narrow, fuzzy neck scarves that were so popular right now. Looking good.

“You plan to spend the night here?”

I swiveled to face her. With Mom and Pop gone I was adrift. “I dread going home to an empty house.” I wasn't being fair to Itty, I knew. He kept me company, but I missed Mom and Pop. Without them to care for, my life seemed to have lost meaning.

“How are things at The Gardens?”

“Marvelous.” I sounded bitter, but I didn't care. “I dropped by last night, and all Mom and Pop could talk about is how busy they are going to be with bingo and bead making. I may have to make an appointment to see them. Mom called this morning to say that tonight they are having a sing-along, and it might be better if I didn't visit.”

Nelda laughed. “Good for her. You need to stop being such a mother hen.”

Birds, butterflies, and now a mother hen. I might be short on sympathy, but I had an abundance of insects and fowls coming my way.

Foul.
Now that was an appropriate word for my mood.

“Come on, Jo. Shut down the computer. If you don't have anything else to do, come home with me. Jim's always glad to see you.”

“No, thanks. I need to stop by the grocery store and pick up a few things.” I pushed my glasses back up on my nose, scraping the small mole where the nose pads rested. “Drats.”

“What?”

I pulled off the glasses and rubbed the mole. “This thing is a nuisance. It's growing and getting to be an eyesore.” Had Sam noticed it?

“So? Get it removed. Nothing to it.”

“It isn't your nose.”

“That's right, it isn't. But if it
were
me, I'd want the icky thing removed.”

She was right; the mole was ugly and needed to come off. “I'll call my doctor tomorrow.”

“There you go. We women got to keep ourselves looking good for the men. How long since your last salon appointment?”

I touched my hair. “Why? Do I need one?”

Nelda appraised my mass of graying locks pulled back by a headband. “Oh, yeah. Need a little maintenance.”

“Not for a man.”

“No, no, not for a man.”

I picked up my purse and coat and we left together. Our feet echoed in the tiled library corridor.

“Sam's due back from Mexico before long, isn't he?”

I knew what she was hinting at, but I wasn't taking the bait. “Is he? I wouldn't know.” There had been so much going on I'd almost forgotten Sam — well, okay, not forgotten. I knew he was due home soon but wasn't sure when. Even so, I wasn't going to have the mole removed and get a salon appointment because of his anticipated return.

I hadn't totally lost my mind.

Wednesday morning the mole was history. The incision left a dime-sized red spot on my nose. I wouldn't be able to wear my glasses for a few days, and someone — I think Nelda again — suggested I look into contacts. Contacts. Me? The idea was ludicrous, but after not seeing a blessed thing the rest of the day I decided maybe contacts were better than a Seeing Eye dog. Thursday night after work, Nelda drove me to the optometrist. My social life was picking up in ways I had never imagined.

The receptionist was a frequent visitor at the library and greeted me like an old friend. “Johanna, so good to see you. Dr. Heuple is ready for you.”

I followed her back to an empty room and climbed into the chair, ready for the eye exam. Dr. Heuple, dark hair looking a lot grayer than I remembered, came in and sat down on a small stool beside me. “So, Johanna. How long has it been since your last exam?”

He thumbed through a manila folder, which I assumed held my records. Not much point in evading the truth. I sighed. “Awhile.”

Dr. Heuple looked at me over the rims of his eyeglasses. “Six years to be exact.”

“Is that what my record shows?”

“Yes, but I hoped it might be wrong.”

“No, I'm afraid that's the truth.” I operated on the “if it ain't broke, don't fix it” method. I could still see; therefore I didn't need new glasses.

We went through the usual test, and I summoned enough courage to ask. “I … what do you think about disposable contacts?”

“Contacts?” The doctor glanced up from the chart he was writing on. “I think they're great — been trying to get you into them for years.”

“Do you think I could wear them?” I knew a lot of people who couldn't. Runny, red-eyed, miserable-looking people.

“Sure. Some can put them in and use them right away; others take a little time getting used to them.”

I had to get used to them? Didn't people realize I didn't like things I had to get used to? I wanted things I was
already
used to.

Before I could say Jack Sprat, I was wearing contacts. The doctor worked with me a few minutes until I was able to put them in on my own. He wanted me back in a week. At that time, he would order my prescription. I paid my bill and stepped outside the office, seeing clearer than I'd ever seen.

Ah, the miracles of the modern-day world. Amazing.

I loved my contacts. I didn't have to keep pushing them up my nose the way I did with the glasses. Besides, I looked better not having to hide behind those big, black frames.

I kept making excuses to go to the restroom at the library so I could sneak a peek at my new image. Had my hair always looked so drab? No style, just sort of … there. I pursed my lips. Nelda was right. I was long overdue for a trim. Or maybe … a change. Yes, a change — to go with my new look. Maybe I would call my stylist and see if she could work me in the next day.

I dialed the salon number and asked for Chantel (
Shawn-tell
, she told me during my first appointment with her). Her voice came on the line. “Hi, Johanna. What's up?”

My mouth opened — then slammed shut. What was I doing? I'd worn my hair like this since I turned twenty. If she hadn't called me by name, I'd have hung up the phone.

“Johanna?”

“Uh … yes. I was thinking of changing my hairstyle.

Could you work me into your schedule?” I knew I was asking the impossible; you didn't just get a Saturday appointment, but I had been going to Chantel for years. Maybe she could fit me in the schedule.

“Hmm. When would you like to come in?”

“Tomorrow.” I held my breath.

“Hmm. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Can you be here by eight o'clock in the morning?”

“Eight? Sure.”

“Fine. See you then.”

She hung up and I released a pent-up breath. What had I done? Well, maybe we could agree on something that wasn't too drastic.

Nelda came in with a new book catalogue. “Think we ought to order these?” She rattled off a few titles.

My mind was on the upcoming change. A new haircut. Contacts. Mole removed.

Sam Littleton wouldn't recognize me — not that it mattered.

Saturday morning I arrived at the salon fifteen minutes ahead of time. Chantel sat me down with a stack of hair styling magazines with an order to “find what you want” while she finished working on the woman occupying the chair. The cuts in the magazines all looked terrific. Making those styles look good on me seemed a little iffy. Maybe I'd just tell her to trim the ends.

I was trying to work up enough courage to back out when she motioned me to her cubicle. I arranged the magazines in a neat stack and trailed on back.

“So see anything you like?”

“Nothing I thought would work for me.”

“Then we'll just wing it.” She whipped a cape around my neck, secured it, and tipped me back to lower my head over the basin.

Wing it?
This was my hair we were talking about. And why did I keep running into the concept of wings? And flying.

Chantel rattled something off about a perm and an “awesome look.” At this stage I was confused and too tired to argue. I just put my fate in her hands. After all, I'd been certain I wouldn't like contacts and I loved them.

“Sure, whatever.” Go for it. If I didn't like it, we could always cut it.

Most of the morning clientele were strangers to me, and so I didn't know who the gossip was about. That made it easier to tune out. Gossip made me uncomfortable. Considering all the things God had to say about it in his Word, I figured he wasn't fond of it either.

Chantel rolled, permed, neutralized, and talked, all the while keeping my back to the mirror while she worked. Two hours later, she whirled me around. “Well, what do you think?”

I stared at my reflection, aghast. My hair stuck out from my head in Brillo Pad tresses
. Little Orphan Annie
. I swallowed, wondering how I could go out on the street looking like this.

“Well?”

“I look like I stuck my finger in a light socket.”

She frowned. “It's called the spiral effect.”

I didn't care. I didn't want it. My earlier complacent thoughts boomeranged back to haunt me.
If I don't like it, we can cut it?
Ha! The curls started flush with my scalp. If we cut it, I'd be bald.

“It's … bold.”

“But nice.”

“It may take some getting used to.”

“Give yourself time. You'll love it. It's so sassy. All you need to do is shampoo, condition, and air dry. If after a few days you can't live with it, we'll come up with something.”

Maybe a bullet?
I hurried to my car and jumped in, flipped down my visor, and stared at my image.

Good grief. Sassy? That didn't begin to describe it.

I was looking at a virtual stranger.

SIX

U
nlocking my front door, I entered the house to the sound of scurrying footsteps. Itty Bitty rushed to greet me. He took one look at the new me, yelped, and reversed his hind paws so fast he skidded on the tiled entryway. It took ten minutes to locate him cowering beneath my bed and another five to coax him to come out. He walked a wide berth around me the rest of the day.