Occasionally, it was my mom’s turn to drive the carpool. My friends’ parents had expensive cars with leather seats. Our car was a gold Ford Maverick leaking some oily substance that, we once were warned, was highly flammable. I used to scrunch down in my seat, my head barely discernible from outside–just in case I might be photographed for the front page of the local newspaper. The headline, I thought, would read LOOK! THAT’S JENNIFER IN HER TOTALLY UNCOOL CAR WITH HER TOTALLY UNCOOL MOTHER!
Salesmen would ask if Morn and I were sisters. My mother would giggle, knowing that the “you’re so young-looking that your daughter must be your sister” compliment is an old sales ploy. Still, she seemed to believe it, even if I was only 10 years old. This was a precursor to a phrase everyone would pronounce as soon as they saw us together: “Why, you look like twins!” Upon hearing this, my mom would stand tall and smile. I, on the other hand, in a classic adolescent maneuver, would frown, gasp or make gagging noises.
At the time, my mother was working night shifts as a nurse. Her days were sprinkled with intermittent naps, that never really helped the fatigue. Even so, she was unfailingly available for me. Yet through the eyes of a preteenager, this was a curse. I wanted to be independent. I wanted to be the boss. And I would make these intentions clear by rolling my eyes, crossing my arms and glaring, or by stomping to my room with door slamming and sulking for hours.
When college beckoned, I went far away from my Miami, Fla., home to Ohio’s Oberlin College. There I was finally free of material scrutiny. I was able to dye my hair red, then black, then red with black streaks–all without being subjected to the “tsk tsk” eyes of my mother. During one visit home to Miami, I had my nose pierced and my hair colored fuchsia–on the same morning. I looked like Ronald McDonald on a bad hair day. My mother took one look at me, wisely recognized that I would do whatever I wanted–and righted herself just before she could faint. I was so proud of her!
When I got back to college, my chain-smoking, eyebrow-pierced friends thought I looked wonderful. Later, I began to grow tired of hair falling out from the chemicals that were regularly poured onto my scalp. So I colored my hair to my natural color, brown, and removed the nose ring. Fortunately, the fuchsia metamorphosis lasted only three weeks.
Now I work full-time in Iowa, take graduate courses at night and live with my boyfriend, who is investing serious time in a doctoral program. The change in my attitude, hair color and behavior has been dramatic. One day, I’m trying to get into a bar with a fake ID. The next, I’m taking careful note of the Frugal Gourmet’s recipes. Rather than looking like Cyndi Lauper, I’m getting more akin to my mother.
A few months ago I was summoned home for my father’s 50th-birthday party. I was thankful that my hair no longer caused anyone–especially my relatives–to have spasms. If any of them knew I’d once harbored a nose ring, they would have choked on their conch-fritter bors d’oeuvres.
Upon seeing me, distant cousins warmly embraced me. “I don’t know if we’ve met, but you must be Gail’s daughter,” they said, a smile directed at the inescapable resemblance between me and the mother from whom I always tried to escape. I felt flattered. Pride welled up inside of me.
As the night wore on, a few of the relatives got together near the beach for an after-midnight drink. I was sure that my mom would pass on the invitation. Her nights usually ended right after the late news. Still, she went and she laughed and chatted into the night while I struggled to keep my eyes open. Wasn’t it only a few years earlier that I was out dancing in the clubs until dawn?
When it was time to leave, I found that–unlike the college student who used to run to the airport at the end of every vacation, multicolored hair flying in the wind–I wanted to stay. From the moment I returned to Iowa, I realized that the transformation was complete. I picked up stray papers and ran for the Lysol before I could set the luggage down. I asked my boyfriend whether our dog had been fed and walked. I checked the basement for signs of small creatures and I winced at the pile of dishes in the sink.
Then I called my mother. “Well, I’m home-tired, but safe and sound,” I told her. “Me too. Planning this party was an energy drain,” she said, the tone and lilt of her voice almost indistinguishable from mine. Then we exchanged recipes and launched into a discussion of the party. We chatted about an annoying family acquaintance (“Well, I didn’t think he’d actually show up,” she reasoned) and that weird cousin, our views nearly identical.
“You know, Mom, I feel like I’m turning into you,” I told her. “I know. I’m so sorry,” she said, the predictability of her familiar sarcasm washing over me like the comforting rhythm of a warm summer rain shower. We laughed simultaneously and on cue, both of us knowing that her knack for self-deprecating humor was indiscernible from mine.
When peering into the mirror, I often catch myself checking for signs of gray hair. A patch has started to peek through near my right temple, similar to the graying that appeared on my mom in her 20s. These hairs represent more than age and heredity. They represent learning, accepting, nurturing and loving–the change from child to adult. And they remind me of family, a notion that once upset me but now makes me smile. It’s a smile that my mother, looking into her mirror, just might recognize.
