Yes, that would be me.
Yesterday was cake day. Daughter-in-law called to say that she had the cake baked, fillings made and equipment assembled so anytime I wanted to come over and assist in the creation of a hot pink zebra cake was good. I had just stepped out of the shower.
I quickly put my wet hair in big, fat curlers, grabbed my phone and headed for town. Now, to be clear, it’s been decades since I last exited my abode with a head full of curlers. Years, I tell you. As I drove in, I chuckled to myself as I remembered how my baby cousin would scream bloody murder whenever he saw my teenage self in rollers.
Of course, one must understand that the rollers of Days Gone By were huge. I’m talking gigantic. There were times when us ’60s girls would use empty (and washed out) orange juice cans as rollers. Remember, “straight” was in. No, not that kind of straight…hair. We had NO concept of the other “straight” or otherwise. 🙂 And even the real rollers were the size of drainage pipes. And for really desperate times, we took an iron to our hair. Yep, complete with the iroing board.
So poor little cousin would just sit, and stare and scream. What was a gal with unruly hair to do? Nothing really. I just ducked into my room and tried to get it dried as quickly as possible. On school nights when there were limits on how late I could stay up, I’d simply hook up my portable hair dryer, stretch the cap over my gargantuan rollers and wet hair and pray for beauty sleep. The next morning my hair MIGHT be dry. Have I mentioned thick hair in all of this?
Because of this thick, wet hair, the rollers stayed in place all afternoon while the zebra cake evolved.
But now…it’s my granddaughters who sit and stare…but no screaming. Yet. The 5 month old’s eyes got very wide when I picked her up. But no screams. She finally recognized the strange rollered lady and grinned. From ear to ear.
The 3 year old sat and stared and smiled and asked “What are those things?”
The 5 year old (who is, by the way, still extremely proud of having left her 4 year world behind) stood and barely batted a blonde eyelash and said, “Wow, Meemaw! You look funny!”, as she raced up the stairs in her Halloween costume. It’s genetic.
Arriving home from a hard day of schoolwork, the 7 year old (who has yet another loose tooth) hit the back door on a dead run and came to a screeching halt in front of me with her sweet little mouth pursing into a soft “Ohhhh” and announced, “Sheesh, Meemaw. You’re creeping me out!!!”
Just what I always wanted to hear. I am now a creepy Meemaw. But there are those who saw it coming. Instinctively THEY knew for THEY had witnessed the creepiness many, many, many years ago! A creepy teenager=a creepy Meemaw. No shock there.