THE GRANDPA MAKEOVER

THE GRANDPA MAKEOVER
Short fiction from the mind of Buster Jent.

Sometimes, I lie and say it was not very long ago. But, it has been a long time. Now, I am much closer to older. Then I was ten going on thirty. My pigtails danced along with my eyes. Both everything and nothing were not anything to me. I guess that is why I did not enjoy my semester with grandpa the way I should have. It never occurred to me that old age came with wisdom. Not even in fairytales, did old age lead to death. Now, I know better than to believe everything I read. But, I still believe in fairytales. One happened to me.
Once upon a time, Prince Charming asked Cinderella to escort him to the fourth grade sweetheart dance. There was only one problem, as far as Cinderella could see. She lived with her grandfather. Like Geppetto, his intentions were good. Also like Geppetto, he did not have a clue what to do. I needed a dress. I needed makeup. God only knows what kind of fiasco he would have made of my hair.
So, Cinderella’s shoulders slumped. Her eyes were puppy dog pouty. Instantly, grandpa knew something was wrong.
“What’s ailing my princess?”
“Ritchie Parker asked me to the sweetheart dance, grandpa. But, I don’t have to go.”
Grandpa smiled the kind of smile that dries tears like sunshine. He chewed the tip of his pipe and tapped a jazz beat with his boots.
“Let’s go princess! There’s somewhere I want to take you.”
Both his truck and his skin smelled of ointment. He drove highway 15 slower than a mid-May day. I had no idea where he was taking me.
“Joose is the man we need to see,” he sang moving and grooving along with Sam and Dave.
My heart sank to my knobby knees. Joose’s name struck a minor chord with me. Joose was the town barber. That would have been fine had grandpa had a grandson. He had no understanding of a little girl- for whom he was fifty years the elder. I tugged sorrowfully at the tips of my pigtails knowing, within my heart, that the gap between our two generations was such an unbridgeable divide.
I bit my lip as we crackled through gravels sheeting the parking lot of Joose’s barbershop. If I were lucky, I would leave with at least a crew cut.
The bell above Joose’s door still rings in my memory loud and sobering like an alarm clock. That particular day Claude was sitting in the chair. Joose’s clippers clogged as he turned away from Claude with a jerk and met grandpa’s eyes with excitement.
“Gramps,” he cried, “it’s good to see you.”
Golden oldies, which were golden but not olden at the time, spilled from the radio. The place was alive with the sound of The Four Tops . The sun shone bright like it seemed to do in only the 1960’s. Joose greeted grandpa with a firm handshake and a milk drinker’s smile.
“What can I do for you?”
“Claude, get out of that chair,” grandpa demanded, “Joose has got to fix a sweetheart dance emergency!”
“You going to a sweetheart dance, gramps?” Joose giggled, “I may be good, but I ain’t no Michelangelo.”
“It ain’t me that’s going to the dance, Joose. It’s princess here.”
Joose stumbled backwards and clutched his heart.

“You want me to cut her hair?”
“Well, yeah. Don’t tell me you’re scared because she’s a girl. What’s the matter? Are you yellow?”
“You know I had a bout with jaundice when I was a baby, gramps. That cuts. That cuts deep. But, I ain’t scared. I wouldn’t hesitate for one second to cut J. Edgar Hoover’s hair, and he’s as much a lady as anyone. But, you know good and well my insurance policy won’t allow me to touch any head of hair that stretches from scalp to shank. Sorry, gramps. I can’t do it.”
“Her hair doesn’t stretch to her shanks,” gramps exclaimed, “you’re just prejudiced against her because she’s a little girl.”
“Well I never,” Joose gasped turning away from grandpa like a lady scorned.
“Wait just a minute, Joose,” Claude groaned rising from the barber’s chair with half a hair cut, “don’t you remember last summer? You cut Benny Hopper’s sister’s hair. She had the longest, shiniest, sexiest hair I had ever laid eyes on. It was the kind of hair that a man would get lost in during late night fantasies. God, she was so pretty. You cut her hair plum down to the dandruff. I’ll have you know something, gramps. I thought that hair cut was Joose’s worst work. But, wouldn’t you know it. Two days later I spotted her at the county fair smooching on Fred Collins. How do you explain that, Joose?”
“I can explain it easy, Claude. That wasn’t Benny Hopper’s sister. That was his brother.”
“Gee whiz,” Claude gasped, “you know, I did always think it was odd that Benny Hopper’s sister was named Ted.”
“I didn’t want to resort to this, Joose,” grandpa snorted, “but you leave me no choice. Do you remember that time you accidentally poured yourself a glass of orange juice from your mother-in-law’s jug?”
“For God’s sake, gramps, don’t do this to me!”
“We found you the following evening standing naked in the middle of Troublesome Creek playing ukulele.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll do it. But I want you to know something, gramps. If her hair turns out looking like Ted Hopper’s, my insurance policy doesn’t cover it.”
“That’s okay,” Claude snickered, “I’m sure Fred Collins will cover the bill.”
Joose tenderly lifted me into the chair and tied an apron smelling of Old Spice around my shoulders. The barbershop was tidy and well kept. Seats were aligned along four walls. Magazines were stacked on a table by the door. The seats were all empty, except one. In the far left hand corner Ma shuffled against nylon like an over stuffed sack of potatoes. Ma was the town’s livestock farmer. It was no secret to me why he was so successful. He outweighed all his stock. Ma’s shadow weighed at least a hundred pounds. Wooly hair curled along his scalp. A sandy goatee jutted from his whiskers. His eyes were slits cut in the dough of his pasty brow and plump, red cheeks. He stared un-amused around the room spitting tobacco into a coffee can and grunting uncomfortably. Joose brought his clippers to life with a buzz. The sound sent static through us all.
“Joose,” Claude hollered, “what do you think you’re doing? You don’t use clippers on a girl. You use scissors, man,”
“What do you know about cutting hair, Claude?” grandpa asked taking a seat by the magazine table.
“I know plenty,” Claude defended.
“Oh really,” grandpa giggled.
“What are you trying to imply, gramps?”
“Oh nothing. I’m just impressed that you know so much about female needs.”
“I knew it! I knew it,” Claude shouted, “you’re insulting my masculinity. Well, I’ll have you know I served two tours of duty in Korea.”
“We all know your war stories, Claude,” Joose groaned.
“I remember one night in particular,” Claude continued, “it was a cold night. The night was so cold we shaved at sundown and had grown full beards by moon-up. We headed out into the Korean mist thirsty for blood. About four or five hundred miles or so into our walk, we came upon the enemy, their eyes peering at us through the jungle moon. Shots fired. It was three against one thousand. By all odds, we didn’t stand a chance. We fought until our sweat poured blood. Night became morning. Morning became dusk. Finally, at the end of the day, we stood in the middle of Korean thick victorious. We crawled back to base anxiously awaiting the chance to tell our brothers we had done what they said we could not do. We killed all three of them.”
“Claude, that is the most pathetic war story I’ve ever heard,” Joose teased with scissors already snipping.
The door swung open giving the bell a jingle ling. A silhouette, perhaps tiny as mine, splashed into the shop. The young man clicked through the door wearing cowboy boots that added well-needed inches to his height. He donned a trench coat, which more than likely he stole from a defenseless Ken doll. A brown derby curved along his crown. His eyes followed the derby’s lip scanning the room like a wild-west gunslinger. Joose’s snipping scissors silenced their chirping. All was quiet except for the click of boot heels and floorboard moans.
The man casually made his way past the chair to the shelf where Joose’s clippers were parked. He reached into his trench coat ready to draw. I held my breath awaiting gunshots. The cowboy’s hand was steady. His eyes never blinked. With a draw that would make even Doc Holliday flinch, the cowboy pulled a glistening, long barreled CURLING IRON from his coat. He twirled it between his fingers like a six-shooter. He slammed the iron on the shelf, untangled the chord, plugged it in, crossed his arms, and anxiously tapped his toes.
“Don’t nobody move,” he squeaked, “as soon as this curling iron gets hot, this is gonna be a stick-up!”
“Bo, you’ve done lost your little mind,” Claude barked, “you don’t bring a curling iron to a stick-up. You bring a gun.”
“Bring a gun,” Bo snarled, “and shoot my barber? I don’t think so.”
“You might want to wait until tomorrow to stick me up, Bo. All I’ve cut today are two shags. Two and a half if you count Claude.”
“This ain’t a matter of money, Joose. It’s a matter of pride.”
“A man holding up a barber shop with a curling iron,” grandpa laughed, “I bet your mama is proud, Bo.”
“You laugh at me now, gramps. But, there won’t be nobody laughing when I take off this hat.”
Bo removed his derby. Everyone, except Bo and Ma, laughed until they nearly soiled their britches.
Bo’s hairdo was unique, to say the least. A thin strip of porcupine hair stretched from ear to ear across his shaved scalp like a sideways Mohawk.
“Look at this, Joose! Look at what you’ve done to me.”
“Bo, I cut it the way you said you wanted it.”
“I said I wanted a Mohawk.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘I want a Mohawk, but make it fluffy so my woman will still have something to run her fingers through.”
“That’s right, Joose. But, that still don’t explain why you cut it sideways.”
“Bo, everybody knows your woman has tennis elbow. How’s she going to run her fingers through your hair if there isn’t any hair on the sides?”
“She’s also half blind, Joose. This sideways Mohawk has got her all messed up. Now, every time she moves in to kiss me she sticks her tongue in my ear.”
“If you’ve got bickering to do, you’re gonna have to take a seat and wait your turn,” grandpa said stomping toward the chair, “my grandbaby has a date to the sweetheart dance tonight, and I don’t want you getting Joose all flustered while he’s chopping my baby’s hair.”
Suddenly, there was a sparkle in Bo’s eyes brighter than Broadway’s lights. He moved quickly in front of me.
“Sweetheart dance,” he exclaimed ripping off his trench coat. He was shirtless underneath, “you don’t need a barber, gramps. You need a stylist.”
“Are you saying you can style hair better than me?”
“No, Joose. You can handle the hair, but there’s more to style than just hair. Let me see her dress.”
Joose and Claude stepped back and cast grandpa a curious stare. Ma grunted. Bo paced the floor rubbing his hands together hungry to get started. Grandpa scratched his head and a frustrated look came upon him.
“I’ve got to get her a dress,” grandpa sighed, “I don’t have enough money to buy a descent dress. What am I going to do?”
Bo halted his pacing and his expression was one of boiling anger. He had something to say, but before he could speak his features instantly transformed from boiling temper to bubbling excitement. His arms stretched wide. His smile shortly followed. He resembled a man in the midst of an epiphany.
“I’ve got it,” he shouted, “my second cousin is in the fourth grade over in Sumner County. She took second place in the Sumner County Possum Pageant. I think her dress just might fit. Joose, get busy on her hair. Gramps, find us some dancing music. We’ve got to teach this girl some moves. Claude, go round us up some of your wife’s… on second thought, round up some of your sister’s makeup. Ma… sit right there. I’ll be back soon.”
“Well,” Claude belched, “I better go rummage through my sister’s makeup, for the fourth time this week.”
Bo and Claude headed out on their expedition. The place seemed incomplete without them.
Joose snipped, brushed, sprayed, and curled. The whole time my foot wagged to the beats of Elvis, The Beatles, and Aretha Franklin. Ma snored in the corner. Grandpa looked at me with his legs crossed and a pleasant, far away gleam in his eyes. I realized for the first time that day how much he really was doing for me, and how much joy it brought him. I loved him. No matter how fashionable my hair or dress, despite what Ritchie Parker thought of me, I loved him and I understood, even at such a tender age, that moment would be one of the fondest memories I would ever know.
Claude was the first to return. He stepped lively through the door cradling an assortment of cosmetics. His ‘half haircut’ flopped in the breeze.
“I didn’t know if she was more of an autumn or a spring shade,” he confessed, “so I grabbed a little bit of everything.”
Grandpa and Joose eyeballed Claude anxious to watch the master at work.
“What are you looking at me for?” Claude asked, “the only makeup lesson I’ve ever had came from a cute, little Korean girl. So, if I put makeup on her she’s likely to turn out looking yellow.”
“This better not be another jaundice joke,” Joose defended.
“No,” Claude continued, “it has nothing to do with jaundice. But, you know that episode does remind me of the time Private Sanchez took a bullet to the hind end. He was lying there on the jungle floor. We all thought he was a gonner. He looked Sergeant Lawson right in the eyes and said, ‘Serge, I don’t think I’m gonna make it out of here alive. You have to make me this one promise before I go. Serge, promise me, when you get home, you’ll tell your wife and my kids I love them…”
“I’ll put the makeup on her,” Joose interrupted.
God knows Joose tried. His eyes were full of inspiration. Somewhere between his eyes and his hands the inspiration was lost. His hand trembled. His strokes were jagged making it obvious this was his first time. Grandpa stared on appalled. Joose would first look to grandpa for approval. The look on grandpa’s face let him know approval had not been granted. Next, Joose would rub my face red and raw with a washcloth trying desperately to erase his errors. The men must have been too drunk with creative juices to notice the mammoth shadow swallowing them from behind. I could have seen him coming from a mile away. Ma stomped his way through the shop toward the chair like Jack’s giant. He placed one ham hand on Joose’s shoulder. Joose turned and met Ma’s doughy eyes with fright. Ma grunted, spit tobacco at Joose’s feet, and stomped out of the shop opening the door with such force the bell nearly jingled from its lingle.
“What’s eating him?” Claude asked.
“I think a more appropriate question would be, what is he eating,” grandpa noted.
The men continued until the bell chimed once more, this time more softly. Bo had returned. Most folks would have decided to wrap the dress in linen, or conceal it in a box. Not Bo. He strutted down main-street, into the barbershop, wearing the dress like an emperor’s robe.
“Joose,” he hollered, “this haircut makes me look girly.”
“This coming from a man wearing a dress,” Joose giggled.
“Do you know what happened to me just now, as I was walking down main-street? Fred Collins asked me out to dinner.”
“Take that dress off, for God’s sake,” grandpa ordered, “you’re going to stretch it.”
“Are you calling me fat, gramps?”
The door opened and all sunlight was eclipsed by a shadow broader than the moon, and more fearful than a storm cloud. Ma darkened the door. This time everyone gave him their fullest attention, not because he was such a mountain of man. We all granted him center stage because he was holding a tiny piglet in his hands and we were afraid he was going to eat it alive.
“This is Percy,” Ma growled with grizzly authority, “he’s my favorite pig outta the whole litter.”
“Whatever you say, Ma,” Bo stuttered.
“I’ve been watching you fellars all day, and I’ve gotta say y’all don’t know the first thing about being purdy. Percy here is the purdiest pig my fat belly sow ever did pass, and it ain’t because of hair, makeup, or a dress. It’s because of a lil’ secret I’ve kept bottled up for years.”
“Just don’t kiss me, Ma,” Claude pleaded.
Ma held a jar up into the light. The jar’s cream colored contents kind of resembled gravy.
“I call it pigskin cream,” Ma boasted, “it’s a contraption I cooked up a few years back when I started noticin’ a lot of my pigs were developin’ bad cases of acne. Now, Percy here had the worst case of pig acne I’ve ever seen. All the other pigs made fun of him. He never could secure any lil piggy dates, until pigskin cream came to his rescue. Now, he touches more pigskin than Johnny Unitus. If you guys don’t believe me, I’ll give you a demonstration.”
Ma lathered Percy’s skin with his miracle gravy. Percy’s tail wagged and he snorted, as if he somehow knew he was in the middle of a beauty treatment. Percy wiggled and giggled. He was certainly a ham in front of a crowd. His pig jig was perhaps a little too vibrant. Percy slipped from Ma’s papa bear grip and landed ham hocks first on the splintery floor. Percy’s squeal singed our ears like bacon grease. The pig immediately took off in a mad dash all around the barbershop. Joose and Claude tried to no avail to catch the grunting runt. Percy plummeted through the chairs. He skidded across hair clippings on the floor. He ran round and round oinking louder and louder until he came to an abrupt stop snout first up the rear end of Bo’s pretty pink dress. Now, Bo was the one squealing. You would think he had just been stabbed. Bo’s face shaded lily white. The hem of his dress jutted straight up his shoulders.
“Oh my ham hocks,” he shrieked.
Right on cue, the bell above the door resonated. Standing in the doorway, pretty as a picture, was Ralph Caldwell; a reporter for the town newspaper.
“Gee wilickers,” Ralph belted, “a pig up a midget’s rump! I’ve got to get a picture of this for the front page.”
“Wait a minute,” said Bo, “you mean to tell me you are gonna snap a picture of me in this position to put on the front page of the paper?”
“That’s right.”
Bo twirled uncomfortably.
“Be sure to get my good side.”
Ralph snapped his picture. That edition of the ‘Town Tribune’ is still the best selling copy in the history of the publication. Ma and Joose pulled the pig from its lacy pink blanket. Bo never ate bacon again.
Joose finally finished my hair. Grandpa led me to the bathroom, where he plucked Bo’s chest fur from the dress then slipped it over my shoulders. Ma made a few last second makeup changes. At last Cinderella was ready for the ball. The men huddled around me like suitors. Claude smoothed his half haircut. Bo’s chest protruded proudly like a chief baboon. Joose smiled. Ma wiped a tear from his eye. Percy gave a jealous snort. Ralph took my picture. Then, there was grandpa. Tears streamed the wrinkled riverbeds shaping along his face.
“There’s one more thing, princess,” he sobbed, “may I please have the first dance?”
Everyone stepped aside giving grandpa and me the floor. Simon and Garfunkle’s ‘Scarborough Fair’ filled the shop like a swan’s song. His steps were jittery. His hands were cold. Yet, to this day I have never met a better dancer.
“You look so much like your grandmother, God rest her soul.”
That was my first dance. It was his last. My memories of the sweetheart social are hazy. I do not know what ever became of Ritchie Parker. I doubt we would recognize each other if we passed on the street. Now, I am much closer to older. Occasionally my skin smells of ointment. With each passing year, I notice a few more wrinkly riverbeds sprouting into tributaries along my face. I guess even fairytales must come to an end. Every now and then, when I am alone and the atmosphere is thick with nostalgia, I will pop ‘Scarborough Fair’ into the c.d. player, and remember my semester with grandpa. One day, sooner than later, I will greet him in that barbershop in the sky. I know he will be saving a dance just for me.