It was beauty parlor day at the nursing home for my mom. That means it has been nearly three months since I have made the time to pamper and groom her properly.
Yes, I go every week like a dutiful daughter. I deliver her assorted requests of garlic powder for her blood pressure, French's Yellow Mustard for her indigestion, and raw honey for her throat. The list is varied, but it is always something as if the brand new facility had no kitchen or cleaning supplies.
Why, for months, well, actually almost a year, she asked me over and over again for a hair dryer. She refused to let them do her hair because she said they would let it air dry and of course that "would just give her pneumonia." I tried to disagree with her, but that is just asking for a fight. And she just may hit you if you are close enough when you "talk back" -- her term for sassing.
Finally, I tired of that complaint and went shopping to purchase her a small compact dryer that would fit neatly in her bathroom drawer. The next week, she tells me, they probably wouldn't use it anyway. She would just rather wait for me.
Oh, and yes, I wash her clothes, though that is supposed to be apart of her package. However, her clothes began to disappear when the aides washed them, and were showing up on the backs of other residents... literally!
You see, I had written her name in giant letters on the back of them figuring no one would see the writing when she was sitting in the wheelchair, but there would be no mistaking who they belonged to -- especially with a name as unique as hers: "Lovie."
But to no avail because "Lovie" was still spread all across the four wings of that nursing home. When the staff wasn't losing them, her neighbor was stealing them. (By the way, this is the same lady who walked into my mother's room while she was at lunch, crawled into her bed and began to eat the candy out of my mother's Easter basket while watching her TV.)
I was also tasked with bringing home the weekly bag because she can't stand the thought of hers being washed with others who my mom swears have bedsores and flaking skin. I can't say that I blame her.
At any rate, for New Year's Day, I decided to give her a fresh start for the year to make her feel pretty. I painted her nails with a two color design. Next, I cut her hair and trimmed her eyebrows that were beginning to take on a life of their own. Then, as I began to pluck the stray hair that grows under 88 year-old ladies chins, my mother who hates to admit she even has hair there, looks up at me and asks, "So how often do you cut your?"
As my mouth dropped in disbelief, I had to remind her that I do not grow hair under my chin… yet. Obviously, with her genes, I may if I ever make it to 88.
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