My grandmother, Grazia Calafato, was born in Brooklyn, NY, in April 1906, the oldest of seven children. As the daughter of Sicilian immigrants, Grandma Grace spoke both Italian and English fluently. She excelled in school, skipped the second grade, kept her nose in the books, and went on to become a wise and shrewd real estate investor – the benefits of which my family will reap for generations to come. Grandma Grace was called home to the Lord in 1999, after a full 93 years on this Earth. She left behind many things: strong family and faith values, sage personal and business advice, valuable investments big and small, and about 24-inches of her 100% Italian black hair. Seriously. Two feet of now 95-year old grandmother hair. (Insert nervous laughter/snort here… and a slow shake of the head.)
A few months ago, my mom had been cleaning out the nooks and crannies of her home and ran across Grandma Grace’s hair. In a bag. In her closet. Holding up the Ziploc bag with two fingers, she said to me with nervous laughter and a slow shake of the head, “What should we do with… this…?”
We are unsure of the whole truth and nothing but the truth about the bag o’ Grandma’s hair, but the story is that she grew her hair out long but kept it pinned up in a low bun at the nape of her neck throughout her young adult life. Once she was married and started having kids in the mid-1920s, she cut off her long locks in exchange for an easier beauty regime. And she kept her hair. In a bag. In her closet. (In case you’re curious, it is a bit mummy-like but not totally mummy-like – it doesn’t crack off or disintegrate in your hands. But, it’s super dry and could definitely use a 3-Minute Miracle moisturizing session. Several 3-Minute Miracle moisturizing sessions, actually.)
And she kept her hair. In a bag. In her closet. (In case you’re curious, it is a bit mummy-like but not totally mummy-like – it doesn’t crack off or disintegrate in your hands. But, it’s super dry and could definitely use a 3-Minute Miracle moisturizing session…)
Looking at the bag dangling from my mom’s hand, I knew exactly what it was. After a beat, I valiantly said, with a nervous laugh and a slow shake of my head, that I would take it. I would take it, and I would throw it away. Finally. I would take this heavy burden off all present, past, and future generations and rid the family of this strange but reverent piece (literally) of my Grandma once and for all. Because, really, should we have kept it all these years after Grandma Grace had kept it all those years? The answer was no. We really shouldn’t have kept it. If I chuck it in the trash, no one would ask about it, never mind even remember it. Done. Decided.
So I took it home. I placed it on the counter. I looked at it. I took it out of the bag to study it one more time. With nervous laughter and a slow shake of my head, I rolled my eyes at the craziness of it all. I put the hair back in the Ziploc bag, and I chucked it. Right in the trash. With wet coffee grounds… and orange peels… and other food refuse of our lives… Where it belongs. Where it has always belonged. Where it belonged all those year ago. Done.
(For the record, Ziploc bags provide excellent protection of cherished valuables even when buried for several hours under layers of odorous, sticky, wet garbage. Even when the contents are two feet of mummy-like, 95-year-old hair that I plan to keep. In a bag. In my closet. Forever and ever and ever. How could I not?)
