Nostalgia? No thanks, I’ll pass.

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

During a recent ice storm, I watched neighborhood kids sliding on the slope beside our house, sliding atop colorful snow tubes. Sliding on a bright blue toboggan, lightweight and made to zip down the slope. And wearing warm and water-resistant clothing.

 

Part of my brain went “Wow!” Another part of my brain got busy recalling the winter clothing and snow sliding equipment I had when I was their age and growing up in the Catskill Mountains. That part soon turned green with envy.

 

In the years after WWII, we made do with hand-me-down sleds. The narrow runners were prone to rust that had to be rubbed away with steel wool. One sled would accommodate only a single short person, or a taller person able to bend his knees in a snowsuit and stick his feet in the air if he belly flopped or draw his knees to his chin if he sat and steered with his feet. The other sled was longer and could accommodate two people, either sitting, or with one flopping on top of the other. Not much fun if you were the bottom flopper.

 Both sleds were more likely to give us splinters than smooth rides.

 Later we acquired a wooden toboggan. It was a varnished work of art. Four of us could sit on it. But unless we kept up with the waxing and unless the snow was perfect and the slope steep, it provided all the thrill of watching bread rise. Plus, because few slopes were free of stumps or shrubs or rocks, and steering was a joke, we often crashed or were dumped.

 On icy days, we slid on old cookie sheets and lobbied hard for those bowl-shaped snow sliders. I can’t recall whether we ever got one, but I expect it didn’t last long if we did. We weren’t especially gentle with our toys.

 Outside play was limited by the temperature, the layers we pulled on, and the water-resistance of our clothing. Back in the day, that wasn’t great. In fact, it was pathetic. Mittens and leather gloves got soaked through in no time. Snow sifted inside jackets without hoods, jackets that didn’t extend far below the waist. And, unless we donned those ugly black galoshes over our shoes and fastened them as tight as possible, our feet got wet, and our toes numb.

 All of that goes a long way toward explaining why, back in the day, I preferred to sit by the fireplace and read.

 And I still do.

 

 

Is It Dry Yet?

Carolyn J. Rose

It takes about three minutes to dry my hair these days. The hair dryer weighs maybe half a pound but blasts out hot air like a jet engine. Even though my hair is thick and shoulder length, it dries in the time it would take to make a hardboiled egg. 

Back in the day—the day being on a calendar from the 50s—my family didn’t own a hair dryer. Getting moisture from the strands took a heck of a lot longer.

     When I was still young enough that my mother washed my hair—probably while I argued that it wasn’t really dirty, shampoo would get in my eyes, and the water was too hot or too cold—the drying process involved my father. I’d be handed off to him along with a large towel and he’d do a kind of head massage thing.

     My father was six feet tall and strong, so the massage was brisk and not the epitome of gentle. It often felt like my head would come unscrewed from my neck and I’m amazed I didn’t get whiplash.

     What I did get was more knots than I’d had before the shampoo. Lots more knots. This was back before conditioner or detangling rinses, so these were serious knots, knots of all sizes.

     It was also my father’s job to comb my hair and work them loose. Dad was noted for a lot of things, but patience wasn’t high on the list. Often, frustrated by my hair and my attitude, he got a scissors and I got a trim.

     I was thrilled when we got our first hair dryer. But the thrill faded fast. The thing was heavy (at least two pounds), the nozzle was small, and the air that emerged was closer to warm than hot and had the velocity of a galloping sloth. It was quicker to sit by the fireplace and fluff my hair or bend over the floor grate above the furnace. That was risky because we had a wood furnace, and the grate was hot enough to sear a steak. Loose hair that fell on it sizzled and smoked.

     In the early 60s, I got a dryer with a bonnet so I could roll my wet hair and dry it while I did my homework. Provided I didn’t want to move farther than the length of the cord, had at least an hour of homework, and used plenty of rollers designed for maximum air circulation, that worked.

     By the end of the 60s I no longer rolled or teased my hair. It grew long and dried in the sun in Arizona. In the 70s it was cut in a wedge and took almost no time to dry with new and improved, light and powerful hair dryers. In the 80s I tortured my layered hair with perms and dried it slowly, twirling it on a brush to avoid frizz.

     Now I run my fingers through it as I aim the tiny dryer. No comb, no rollers, no brush. Sometimes I think of all the time this dryer and the I-don’t-much-care styling technique could have saved me during my childhood and teenage years.

 Then I give myself a reality check and admit I probably wouldn’t have used that time wisely.hair these days. The hair dryer

weighs maybe half a pound but blasts out hot air like a jet engine. Even

though my hair is thick and shoulder-length, it dries in the time it would take

to make a hardboiled egg.

Back in the day—the day being on a calendar from the 50s—my family didn’t

own a hair dryer. Getting moisture from the strands took a heck of a lot

longer.

When I was still young enough that my mother washed my hair—probably

while I argued that it wasn’t really dirty, shampoo would get in my eyes, and

the water was too hot or too cold—the drying process involved my father. I’d

be handed off to him along with a large towel and he’d do a kind of head

massage thing.

My father was six feet tall and strong, so the massage was brisk and not the

epitome of gentle. It often felt like my head would come unscrewed from my

neck and I’m amazed I didn’t get whiplash.

What I did get was more knots than I’d had before the shampoo. Lots more

knots. This was back before conditioner or detangling rinses, so these were

serious knots, knots of all sizes.

It was also my father’s job to comb my hair and work them loose. Dad was

noted for a lot of things, but patience wasn’t high on the list. Often,

frustrated by my hair and my attitude, he got a scissors and I got a trim.

I was thrilled when we got our first hair dryer. But the thrill faded fast. The

thing was heavy (at least two pounds), the nozzle was small, and the air that

emerged was closer to warm than hot and had the velocity of a galloping

sloth. It was quicker to sit by the fireplace and fluff my hair or bend over the

floor grate above the furnace. That was risky because we had a wood

furnace and the grate was hot enough to sear a steak. Loose hair that fell on

it sizzled and smoked.

In the early 60s, I got a dryer with a bonnet so I could roll my wet hair and

dry it while I did my homework. Provided I didn’t want to move farther than

the length of the cord, had at least an hour of homework, and used plenty of

rollers designed for maximum air circulation, that worked.

By the end of the 60s I no longer rolled or teased my hair. It grew long and

dried in the sun in Arizona. In the 70s it was cut in a wedge and took almost

​

no time to dry with new and improved, light and powerful hair dryers. In the

80s I tortured my layered hair with perms and dried it slowly, twirling it on a

brush to avoid frizz.

Now I run my fingers through it as I aim the tiny dryer. No comb, no rollers,

no brush. Sometimes I think of all the time this dryer and the I-don’t-much-

care styling technique could have saved me during my childhood and

teenage years.

Then I give myself a reality check and admit I probably wouldn’t have used

that time wisely.

​

Is It Dry Yet?

Carolyn J. Rose

It takes about three minutes to dry my hair these days. The hair dryer

weighs maybe half a pound but blasts out hot air like a jet engine. Even

though my hair is thick and shoulder-length, it dries in the time it would take

to make a hardboiled egg.

Back in the day—the day being on a calendar from the 50s—my family didn’t

own a hair dryer. Getting moisture from the strands took a heck of a lot

longer.

When I was still young enough that my mother washed my hair—probably

while I argued that it wasn’t really dirty, shampoo would get in my eyes, and

the water was too hot or too cold—the drying process involved my father. I’d

be handed off to him along with a large towel and he’d do a kind of head

massage thing.

My father was six feet tall and strong, so the massage was brisk and not the

epitome of gentle. It often felt like my head would come unscrewed from my

neck and I’m amazed I didn’t get whiplash.

What I did get was more knots than I’d had before the shampoo. Lots more

knots. This was back before conditioner or detangling rinses, so these were

serious knots, knots of all sizes.

It was also my father’s job to comb my hair and work them loose. Dad was

noted for a lot of things, but patience wasn’t high on the list. Often,

frustrated by my hair and my attitude, he got a scissors and I got a trim.

I was thrilled when we got our first hair dryer. But the thrill faded fast. The

thing was heavy (at least two pounds), the nozzle was small, and the air that

emerged was closer to warm than hot and had the velocity of a galloping

sloth. It was quicker to sit by the fireplace and fluff my hair or bend over the

floor grate above the furnace. That was risky because we had a wood

furnace and the grate was hot enough to sear a steak. Loose hair that fell on

it sizzled and smoked.

In the early 60s, I got a dryer with a bonnet so I could roll my wet hair and

dry it while I did my homework. Provided I didn’t want to move farther than

the length of the cord, had at least an hour of homework, and used plenty of

rollers designed for maximum air circulation, that worked.

By the end of the 60s I no longer rolled or teased my hair. It grew long and

dried in the sun in Arizona. In the 70s it was cut in a wedge and took almost

​

no time to dry with new and improved, light and powerful hair dryers. In the

80s I tortured my layered hair with perms and dried it slowly, twirling it on a

brush to avoid frizz.

Now I run my fingers through it as I aim the tiny dryer. No comb, no rollers,

no brush. Sometimes I think of all the time this dryer and the I-don’t-much-

care styling technique could have saved me during my childhood and

teenage years.

Then I give myself a reality check and admit I probably wouldn’t have used

that time wisely.

​Carolyn J. Rose

It takes about three minutes to dry my hair these days. The hair dryer

weighs maybe half a pound but blasts out hot air like a jet engine. Even

though my hair is thick and shoulder-length, it dries in the time it would take

to make a hardboiled egg.

Back in the day—the day being on a calendar from the 50s—my family didn’t

own a hair dryer. Getting moisture from the strands took a heck of a lot

longer.

When I was still young enough that my mother washed my hair—probably

while I argued that it wasn’t really dirty, shampoo would get in my eyes, and

the water was too hot or too cold—the drying process involved my father. I’d

be handed off to him along with a large towel and he’d do a kind of head

massage thing.

My father was six feet tall and strong, so the massage was brisk and not the

epitome of gentle. It often felt like my head would come unscrewed from my

neck and I’m amazed I didn’t get whiplash.

What I did get was more knots than I’d had before the shampoo. Lots more

knots. This was back before conditioner or detangling rinses, so these were

serious knots, knots of all sizes.

It was also my father’s job to comb my hair and work them loose. Dad was

noted for a lot of things, but patience wasn’t high on the list. Often,

frustrated by my hair and my attitude, he got a scissors and I got a trim.

I was thrilled when we got our first hair dryer. But the thrill faded fast. The

thing was heavy (at least two pounds), the nozzle was small, and the air that

emerged was closer to warm than hot and had the velocity of a galloping

sloth. It was quicker to sit by the fireplace and fluff my hair or bend over the

floor grate above the furnace. That was risky because we had a wood

furnace and the grate was hot enough to sear a steak. Loose hair that fell on

it sizzled and smoked.

In the early 60s, I got a dryer with a bonnet so I could roll my wet hair and

dry it while I did my homework. Provided I didn’t want to move farther than

the length of the cord, had at least an hour of homework, and used plenty of

rollers designed for maximum air circulation, that worked.

By the end of the 60s I no longer rolled or teased my hair. It grew long and

dried in the sun in Arizona. In the 70s it was cut in a wedge and took almost

​

no time to dry with new and improved, light and powerful hair dryers. In the

80s I tortured my layered hair with perms and dried it slowly, twirling it on a

brush to avoid frizz.

Now I run my fingers through it as I aim the tiny dryer. No comb, no rollers,

no brush. Sometimes I think of all the time this dryer and the I-don’t-much-

care styling technique could have saved me during my childhood and

teenage years.

Then I give myself a reality check and admit I probably wouldn’t have used

that time wisely.

​