I took an open parking spot at Campbell Funeral Home, not sure what I would say or do. Here, family and friends were to console one another in their grief, but I wasn’t sure how folks would react. Before we got out of the car, I said to Mom, “I’m glad you’re with me, but it’s been so long since you and Albert were
divorced.”
She looked at me like I should know thirty years apart hadn’t diminished her love for him. “Your dad was my first love. He held a special place in my heart—a place no one else could ever have.”
How could that be true? My expression must have shown my disbelief. “Maybe so,” I said, “but he was a poor excuse for a father. Just because he’s dead doesn’t change anything.”
She had the reddened look of an Air Force sergeant after I said something wrong. “He’s your father! I don’t want to hear that garbage coming out of your mouth.” Past the shrub-lined walk from the parking lot, she stopped to admire the view. Tall, white columns formed the porch, with an array of pink and red rose bushes in front. “This place looks like a mansion out of Gone with the Wind. At any moment, Scarlet O’Hara could come dancing across the porch in her pink satin dress.”
I opened the right side of the heavy double-doors. The smell of carnations and roses was as inviting as a flower shop on Mother’s Day. If it hadn’t been for the tears in people’s eyes and the lack of tables and books, I might have thought I was entering a library with hushed conversations.
In the center of the foyer, a gray-haired woman sat behind a cherry-wood desk. She looked up at Mom and gave a sympathetic smile. “Who are you here to see?”
“Albert Johnson.”
The woman pointed toward the door. “The Johnson viewing is over there.”
I stood behind Mom while she signed the guest book.
Aunt Nell, dad’s older sister, came toward us, her eyes red and face wet with tears. On her tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around my neck. Her tears felt warm on my cheeks. “My baby brother is gone,” she whispered. With her hands on my shoulders, she stepped back and looked up at me. “Oh, honey, you look just like your daddy.” She fondled my hair like I was her long-lost son, and more tears streamed down her cheeks.
She turned and embraced Mom. “Shirley, I am so glad you came. You and Albert were such a cute couple. We have always loved you.”
With an understanding smile, Mom said, “Nell, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Aunt Nell took hold of my arm. “Let’s go see your daddy.” She guided me into a room lined with chairs, love seats, and a couch along the wall. “All the folks are here to pay their respects. Your daddy had a lot of friends in Jonesboro. Lord knows, people loved your daddy.”
Through the double doors on the far end of the visiting area, we entered the viewing room. Wreaths and potted plants and sprays of carnations and roses rested on tables and stands, filling the room on both sides of the casket. Obviously, many people cared, but I wasn’t one of them. I gazed at my father’s face and said to
myself, Yep, that’s Albert, all right.
I felt a twinge of guilt. Isn’t a son supposed to be overcome with sorrow and cry when his old man checks out? I imagined throwing myself on top of his new suit, crying real tears because of the pain I was supposed to feel. My sorrow wasn’t for my father. It was for the tears that clouded Aunt Nell’s eyes.
She looked at Albert with longing, like someone reliving a memory from long ago. “When he was a
baby, Mama let me take care of him. I gave him baths and dressed him as if he were my own living doll. My baby Albert. How I loved his beautiful curls.” She
caressed his hair and released more tears. “Look at his hair. His pretty curls are gone—all straightened out. He never looked this way when he was alive. Did he ever look this way to you?”
I didn’t have to answer. I put my arm around her, and we wept together. In seeing her weep as she lovingly touched his hair, I felt helpless. What could I do?
She looked at me through her tears. “With his hair slicked back, he doesn’t look right, does he, honey?”
“No, he doesn’t. He never wore his hair combed flat like that.”
“His curls are gone! My baby Albert’s curls are gone.” She sniffled, trying to regain her composure. “When Albert was a little boy, he liked me to comb his soft curls. I asked the funeral director if he could redo his hair and make his curls come back.”
“What did he say?”
“He tried to bring his curls back, but he couldn’t make them right. He said he was sorry, but this was all he could do.” She touched Albert’s hair and cried even more.
The tears in Aunt Nell’s eyes were more than I could stand. What could I do? I had an idea. If it didn’t work, I might upset a lot of people, but I had to try. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I said, as I left in a hurry.
On my way out, I saw Mom. “I’m going to the drug store.”
“Why?”
“To buy some hair oil. I need something to put on Albert’s hair that will bring the kink back into his curls.”
“Maybe you should ask the funeral director for help.”
“Aunt Nell already did. That butch wax wouldn’t budge if you ran Albert through a car wash. She won’t have any peace unless she can feel his curls. His slicked-back hair is breaking her heart, and I’m having a hard time dealing with that.”
I was a man on a mission. At the store, I scanned an array of bottles, boxes, and tubes of help-me-look-pretty styling mousses, do-it-yourself curl kits, and
super-hold spritzes. While looking across the shelves, I imagined Aunt Nell, standing over her brother’s body, lovingly touching his hair while tears trickled down her cheeks. I could hear her tear-choked whispers. What happened to my baby Albert’s curls? His beautiful curls are gone.
Standing flat-footed on the waxed linoleum floor, I squinted through my own tears but couldn’t see what I was looking for.
A gray-haired black lady, wearing a blue Rexall Drug smock, put her hand on my shoulder. “Sweetie, are you okay?”
I wiped the tears from my eyes. “I’m looking for old people’s hair stuff for men.”
She smiled like an understanding mother. “I can help you with that. What old people’s hair stuff are you looking for?”
“The Vaseline hair oil like people used back in the fifties.”
“Follow me.” She went to the far end of the aisle, bent down on one knee, and picked up a clear bottle. Here, is this what you’re looking for?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is there anything else?”
“I need a man’s comb.”
She rang up my purchases and placed the hair oil and comb in a paper bag. “Sweetie, is there anything you would like to talk about?”
Her caring about me felt good, but I needed to go. “I’ll be okay, ma’am. But thank you just the same.”
At the funeral home, I followed the signs to the
director’s office. I stood before a teenage receptionist. “Is the funeral director available?”
“Yes, may I say who’s calling?”
“Wayne Johnson. I’m the son of Albert Johnson. His body is in one of the viewing rooms.”
Gary Ross, a young man of about thirty, came out to shake my hand. “How can I help you, Mr. Johnson?”
“Can we go back to your office and talk?”
He directed me to the chair across from his desk.
“Our family appreciates your helping us during this difficult time,” I said. “But here is my problem—my dad had very curly hair. I’m sure whoever prepared his body did the best they could, but it doesn’t look right. It’s way too straight.”
Mr. Ross nodded. “I know. Ms. Nell—your dad’s sister I believe—asked me if I could bring his curls back. I tried, but I couldn’t get much curl. I would try again, but I don’t think it would do any good. I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson. If I had been given a picture to work from, I might have styled his hair differently.”
“My only concern is Aunt Nell. She as much as raised my dad when he was a baby, and she is having a difficult time with his sudden death. She won’t get any peace with her little brother’s hair slicked back.”
Mr. Ross looked sympathetic. “I’ll be glad to try again. I just don’t think I can make his hair curl like you want.”
I placed my elbows on his desk and looked straight at him like an employee who was ready to risk being fired. “I appreciate your trying to fix my dad’s hair, but my Aunt Nell is hurting. Nothing else matters. Here’s what I’d like for us to do. You go into the viewing room, ask everyone to wait in the lobby, and close the door so you and I are the only ones there.” I pulled the bottle of hair oil from my pocket. “You hold my dad’s head up while I rub some of this in his hair. Then I’ll comb his hair against my fingers and get his curls back. But first we need to remove whatever you used on his hair.”
He leaned back in his chair, apparently in deep thought. “This is not something we normally do.”
“Well then, Mr. Ross, I’m asking you to make an exception.”
He took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll gather what we need. Meet me in the viewing room in five minutes.”
I felt sick. While talking to Mr. Ross, I was only thinking about my Aunt. How would I feel when I
began to comb my dead father’s hair? Could I handle working on a dead body? No matter how bad I felt, nothing could be worse than seeing Aunt Nell falling apart because her little brother was missing his curls. I would have to suck it up and get past my fears.
Aunt Nell was sitting on the waiting room sofa, talking with Mom and a strange man who was about my dad’s age. She took my hand. “Honey, I’m so glad you’re here. You look so much like your daddy.”
I smiled but quickly gave her a look of concern. “Aunt Nell, can we talk in private for a second?”
Mom said, “I need to step outside for a smoke.”
The older man excused himself, saying he needed to find a water fountain.
I sat beside my aunt. “In a few minutes, the funeral director will ask everyone to leave the viewing room and wait in the lobby. He’s going to close the door and help me get the curl back in Albert’s hair.” I showed her the bottle of hair oil. “This is the same stuff he used. I’ll get his curls back. I promise.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, almost too choked with emotion to speak.
With the doors closed behind us, Mr. Ross moved four stands of flowers and pulled back the blue curtain behind the casket. From a black leather bag, he
removed several white towels and placed one across Albert’s chest and two over each side of the casket. With one hand under his head and the other a little lower, between his shoulders, he lifted his upper body to eight inches above the pillow. “Mr. Johnson, stand beside me, put your hand next to mine, and hold your dad’s head up off the pillow.” He then placed a metal brace underneath to hold Albert’s head above the pillow.
Mr. Ross opened a heavy duty zip-lock bag and gave me a white towel that smelled like acetone. “Rub this towel through his hair like you do when you’re drying your hair. The solution in the towel will dissolve the gel in his hair.” He laid a dry towel over my shoulder. “When you’re finished, use this towel to dry his hair.” He watched me move the wet towel through Albert’s hair. “Slow down, and lighten your touch.”
“Okay, thanks. I’m kinda new at this.”
He grinned. “You’re doing fine.”
I noticed a mole on the upper part of Albert’s cheek, in exactly the same place where I had a mole. I also had his curly hair. I wondered if this was what I would look like when I died. My fears about working with my dead father were gone. After two minutes of rubbing with the wet towel, the gel had dissolved and I used the dry towel.
I poured the Vaseline oil onto my palm, rubbed my hands together, and spread the oil into Albert’s hair. As I rubbed, I felt the long scar on the right side of his head. He laughed when he told me about it, but it wasn’t funny when it happened. Papa gave him a pig and told him to sell it and buy food for Mom and me, but he used the money to pull a five-day drunk instead. When he didn’t come home, Mom took me and went to stay with her folks. He staggered to Papa’s house, looking for us, and Papa pulled him into the bedroom and gave him a beating with the butt of his pocket knife.
With Albert’s hair oiled up, I used the comb to separate the strands of hair. Beginning at his forehead and working my way back, I pinched waves between my thumb and first two fingers. When I released each clump of hair, a tiny curl popped out. I smiled all over. These were curls that would comfort Aunt Nell.
Mr. Ross looked amazed. “I would never have thought his hair was curly enough to make those small ringlet curls.”
“If my hair were shorter, it would do the same thing. Aunt Nell will be pleased.” I wiped the oil from my hands. “Thank you for doing this for us.”
Fifteen people were standing in the lobby when Mr. Ross opened the double doors into the viewing room. Aunt Nell was the first inside. Evidently, she had told others what I was doing. Folks lined up behind her to have a look at Albert’s new hairdo.
At the casket, Aunt Nell took my hand and looked fondly at her little brother. “Oh, look at his curls! Aren’t they beautiful? They look so natural.” She squeezed my hand and looked at me with tear-filled eyes. “Thank you, honey.” She caressed his curls. “My baby has the most beautiful hair.”
In the next fifteen minutes, every person went to the viewing room and saw Albert’s resurrected hair. Seeing and feeling his curls brought a remarkable change in my aunt. She spoke of happy times when he was a baby and how the Johnson men had curly hair. While running her hand through my hair, she said, “My nephew has these beautiful curls. He got them from his daddy.”
Mom kissed me on the cheek and said, “That was a good thing you did. You’re more like your father than you realize.”
Aunt Nell had found peace. All it took was to feel her brother’s curls. Albert liked his hair, but I didn’t like curly hair. In my generation, the cool guys had straight hair like Troy Donahue or the Beatles. You had the crowning look if your hair fell straight down on your forehead, just above the eye lids. Guys with curly hair like mine were called Brill‑o Head, Kink, Frizz Head, and Wire Lid.
To be stylish, I straightened my hair using a product called “hair mayonnaise.” Before combing it through my hair, I put on plastic gloves and smeared my ears and neck with Vaseline to keep any of the chemical from touching my bare skin. The rotten-egg smell took me outside for fresh air while I waited the required fifteen minutes before I could do the rinse. The stuff worked. No more curly hair. But when my hair grew out, the roots were curly and the ends were straight, making me look like a mad scientist until I
endured the process all over again.
After being discharged from the Air Force, I let my hair grow. The longer it grew the more difficult it was to control. I didn’t want to go through the straightening routine. That was swapping one wild look for another. One Friday night I took a shower and got sidetracked. While watching television, I kept rubbing my hair with the towel. When I went back to get dressed, I was shocked at what I saw in the mirror—a curly afro. After seeing what my hair would do, I had the barber cut my hair the same length all the way around. With the right drying technique, people thought I had gotten a perm.
My friend Rick had his hair cut like mine. We were on the cutting edge of the curly hair look that was only beginning to become popular. Other guys were getting perms, but my hair was natural, inherited from Albert. What had once been a source of ridicule was now a blessing.
I looked at my watch. In twenty-five minutes, we would leave for Albert’s funeral at Strange Methodist Church in Readhimer. Besides his hair, did he have other redeeming qualities that I had overlooked?
I didn’t think so.