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said.
    On the way home, Donna smiled to herself and mused, “He must have misunderstood. Probably thought I said Circle K.”
    Mel knew he was being stubborn, but he wasn't as forgiving of his daughter's independence and life-style as Donna. Around 8:30 pm on June 18, as he had done every five minutes that evening, he peeked through the Venetian blinds and spotted Donna emerging from a cab.
    She limped noticeably while pressing her hand firmly on her backside.
    “Where have you been?” he demanded.
    "Oh Mel, you should have been there. It was wonderful. I started off at the park with everyone else and then I fought off three dogs, nursed two blisters, and finally hitched a ride with a motorcyclist who was going right by Jackie's Body Shop.
    "Your daughter looked beautiful. They stood in front of a wall of mirrors and pledged to love one another forever as much as they did today, keep their bodies fit, and with God's love, both qualify for Boston with a 2:42.
    "The groom's mother wore a T-shirt that read joggers do it better and the minister had Band-Aids on his nipples to keep his shirt from irritating them as he ran.
    "I ate a lot of health food, and met a lot of people— one woman who said her daughter was married in a free parachute fall over Omaha and had to pack her own parachute. We're having lunch next Tuesday. Just before Lynn left she took me aside and said if she continues to run thirty to forty miles a week she won't ovulate and so I shouldn't expect any grandchildren right away. She said that's the first meaningful conversation we ever had in our entire lives.
    “Barry is built like the U.N. building and sells air conditioners at Sears. Oh, I was the only one there carrying a handbag, and I think I pulled a hamstring, but Mel . . . our daughter is ... married!” (Hallelujah!)
     
     

Unknown
    10
    Hair
    Every hundred years or so, the Earth shifts and goes into another cycle. I missed the Stone Age, the Ice Age, and the Glacial Period, but I was here for most of the Age of Hair.
    It was the best of times and it was the worst of times.
    Like most mothers, I devoted my life to the length of my son's hair. Me would come down for breakfast and say, “Good morning,” and I would reply “Get a haircut. One egg or two?”
    We would be standing in church, and as the priest encouraged us to “extend to one another the sign of peace,” I would turn to him, smile reverently, and say, “Get a haircut, weirdo.”
    It was all we ever talked about. We argued about barbers and the length of time between haircuts. We argued about the price of shampoo, the limitation of hot water, how he was screwing up our septic tank, and how we'd never unload him at the altar if he insisted on looking like Walter Matthau in drag.
    He would come home and try to tell me the barber gave him a Timothy Leary trim.
    “It looks more like a King Kong clip to me.”
    “What's a King Kong clip?”
    “A light trim on your hands and ankles.”
    “There's no pleasing you,” he shouted.
    “Try!” I shouted back.
    I always thought I was fair. I told him, “Hair can be as long, as shabby, and as dirty as it wants to be. It can be braided around the head five times or hang down to the tailbone in a ponytail ... as long as it's on someone else's son.”
    The more I talked, the longer the hair became and the more fragile our relationship became.
    In twelve years, not once did I give his hair a rest or miss an opportunity to harp on how he had disappointed me as a son.
    Then one day he came into the kitchen and said, “When's dinner?”
    I said mechanically, “You've got time to get a haircut. It's at 6:30.”
    He said, “Okay.”
    I nearly fainted.
    When he returned, his hair was neatly trimmed and cleared his ears. We both smiled awkwardly. Like strangers on a blind date.
    “So, what's been going on?” I asked.
    “Not much,” he stammered. “What about you?”
    I had no idea what a large part of our relationship had been based on such