I promised y’all I would blog about why I don’t like my hair touched, and decided today’s a good day to do it since I’m reminiscing again. You see my maternal Aunt Ginnie was a beautician. When Sis and I were young we used to accompany Mom to Aunt Ginnie’s house on Friday nights, and Mom would get her hair coiffed in Aunt Ginnie’s little beauty shop while we played outside with our cousins, Dave and Rick.
Dad would come pick us all up when he got off work and Sis and I would tell him all about our adventures: running up and down Lincoln Ave chasing bats, playing tag, jump rope, or baseball in the road before it got too dark and we had to come inside and watch tv.
I wore my hair long as I aged because I just didn’t like short hair and my “baby fine” hair was thick and long. Whenever Aunt Ginnie would see me she would run her fingers through my hair and say: “You need a haircut.” I could never say anything to her about this because if she told my dad, he would have tanned my hide for talking back; so I had to endure her torture! So now as the late Paul Harvey would say: “You know the rest of the story!”