Her Big Hair Nearly Killed Me

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I met Desdemona in Tupelo. She stood in front of a department store with a shopping bag on the pavement in front of her, and rubbing the corner of one eye with her knuckles, as if there were tears. I did say as if. There had never been an more obvious ploy for attention. I watched for a minute, then decided to walk over. She turned out to be a touchy feely type of gal. After some small talk, I tried to leave, but she wouldn’t let go of me.

Over lunch, I learned she was born a pea planter’s daughter, and prided herself in having never had a tan, despite being raised in the hot, low country. It was some kind of rule she grew up with. She was tall, with a great figure, and had the most beautiful blue eyes. And besides being very white, her most obvious feature was her big hair. It was as red as the polka dots on her dress, and I swear it made her a foot taller. I got the impression she thought its size was perfectly normal, though she did confess to having to be careful with cigarettes.

Desdemona had been visiting relatives in Tupelo, and she invited me to go home with her to the family plantation outside Hattiesburg. Since I had no real place to be, I readily agreed. On the way, she told me about her Mama, who had become senile at times, and would think she was speaking to her brother Charles, who went missing in WWII. We talked a lot, and the time passed, though I wished later that I could have followed instead of riding with her. That gal had an old green Cadillac convertible with fins on the back that must have cost a fortune to restore, and she had quite a lead foot. But we made it there alive, and when I saw their antebellum home, built on a slope with the most beautiful old oak trees, it was a sight to behold.

Servants dressed in white took our luggage, and brought us iced tea to drink as we sat down in the parlor. It was all like something out of the past. Desdemona told me that her mother probably wouldn’t distinguish me from any other boyfriend she had ever brought there, and I barely had time to ponder that before she walked in.

“Charles. Why, it’s been so long.”

“Mama, this is Levi Popple. He’s a banker.”

I didn’t know why Desdemona felt the need to lie. I had never been ashamed of my capitalist ventures. Just the week before, I had washed dishes at Flo’s Pancake House in Meridian.

Her mother’s name was Seamoan, and her hair was big too, though it was a wig. Actually, I thought she was rather attractive. She went on and on about how their family was esteemed in the community, and how there had never been any “mixing” with blacks. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Desdemona licking her lips in obvious slow motion, but did my best to ignore her.

“Go on, ma’am,“ I said.

“You know,“ she said, “those mulattoes are everywhere. I watched one in the grocery store and she touched every single damned piece of fruit before picking one."

Personally, I had never heard the word spoken before, and didn't quite know what to think of her.

"All that after who knows what kind of gross relations the night before. Probably not even smart enough to wash her hands. And then she drove off in a damned Mercedes Benz! Now how do you explain that?” Desdemona volunteered that the woman had probably stolen it, and Seamoan said that was the only possible explanation.

Then Seamoan spoke of an ancestor from northern Virginia in the Revolutionary War, and of how she was going to become a member of the D.A.R. She took a folder of old papers out of a desk and put it on the coffee table. She also mentioned that he was buried under the woodshed, which “wasn’t always where it is now.” The legend was that he had apprehended a dozen Indians during a battle all by himself, and made them give up their guns and chickens.

“Shot the hell out of them. The Indians sided with the British, you know.” She then showed me a lot of old things, and said she couldn’t read the handwriting, but it was all there if I could read it.

While Seamoan and Desdemona went out on the porch to smoke, I looked at the papers. Grandpa had petitioned the government for a pension, as was apparently done in those days, and had to give a deposition of his service and tenure. It appeared that he had enlisted in the first place just because he couldn’t cook. He then spent half his time in uniform making liquor for the regiment, and the other half drinking it.

The famous event with the Indians occurred when he woke up one morning still drunk, and laying under a dead horse. His entire regiment had left during the night. The Indians tarred and feathered him, and set him on fire. Then they tied him to the horse in such a way that his face was right under its tail. After that, everybody called him Old Burnt Fart.

I read on to the courthouse writer’s comments, and witness signatures at the end of the deposition. The writer had gotten the impression that there was only one Indian. And that Gramps had moved to the south in an effort to escape the stigma of it all. I don’t know if anything in his story resulted in a pension for him. But being the soft-hearted gentleman that I am, I let on none of this to the Bouffantalierre women when they came back in.

“Did you enjoy reading about the war?” they asked.

“Yes,“ I replied. “Your ancestor was a man on fire, if you ask me.”

“I oughta set that Lucius on fire!” was the next thing from Desdemona’s mouth.

As explained to me, she had taken some of her inheritance and for some reason had bought every dingy, old coin laundry in Mississippi. Then she hired a man of dubious background named Lucius, to run it all for her. Word had it that he was ripping her off, and buying up all the one-room gas station/casinos. One of them was supposedly right next door to one of her laundries, but she couldn’t prove it because she couldn’t remember how to get there.

“Damn his face!” If my father was alive he’d beat that man twice, and stick a cane pole up his…“ Seamon scolded her before she could say more.

“I apologize sir, for my child‘s terrible temper.”

“Apology accepted, ma'am."

“Thank you. Now what did you say your name was?” I told her again, then listened to more words of wisdom from Desdemona.

Besides the laundries, she had also purchased a series of feed mills, and canneries. What made her pick those particular things, I never knew. To her, they were just dollar signs on paper. When I asked if she had ever inspected one of those feed mills, she looked aghast.

“Why, certainly not, sugar. Those things would smell, wouldn’t they?” She appeared to think for a second.

“I mean, I could. But I’d have to walk around with a perfume bottle under my nose, and I guess that wouldn’t look right.”

We spent most of that afternoon, and others like it on the porch drinking mint juleps and playing bridge. I didn’t know that people actually drank them, until I had one myself. I also didn’t know that some people go to Graceland twelve times or more.

I talked a lot to Annise, a kind black gal who worked there. Desdemona disapproved, but without good reason, so I did it anyway. Annise spoke in a most deliberate slow manner that was fascinating to listen to. One day, she told me about some new girl that didn’t know how to work hard.

“That girl… doesn’t know what she’s doing… I’m going to work her like a human… Hebrew slave.” Annise was something, and I can just hear her today. And she had a sister who worked there named Cherylin, but I couldn’t believe they were related. One day, I went to the kitchen to get a snack, and I overheard her out at the back, fussing at a food delivery boy.

“I don’t know whut choo up to, but don’t choo come back here no mo! You hear me? You gone worry Ms. Boufantleer! You better run! I’ll kick your ass, you sorry good fo nuthin’ white boy! I’ll work over your head like a human Hebrew slave! Don’t choo come back…”

It was certainly entertaining, but being of the same color as the boy, I quietly grabbed some cookies and tiptoed out.

The afternoons on the porch got long and tedious. I couldn’t just sit there and talk like that all day, and I needed to stretch my legs. So on the third day, I went walking over the farm. They grew peas, corn, cotton and soybeans, and the acreage appeared phenomenal. I could only go so far, because I realized I’d be nighttime getting back if I tried to see it all. When I came back, I saw Desdemona sitting on the porch swing, eating a pickle. I remarked that the pond nearest the house was pretty, and wondered if there were any big bass in it.

“Really,” she said. “Now where did you say that was?”

I had no intention of explaining to her where her own pond was, and so I gave the outside of the house a good look. The tops of the columns had those fancy Greek flourishes carved on them. Their porch was built high off the ground, and it had that old-fashioned type of heavy wood railing that would cost a fortune to build today. It probably cost a good bit for its own time, which was about 1835. I complimented Seamoan on the condition of the house, as it had been admirably maintained.

She told me they felt fortunate to have the farm.

“Otherwise, we’d have to do like some people do, and turn the house into a bread and breakfast.”

“That’s bed and breakfast, Mama!” chided Desdemona loudly, as she stepped in to get another pickle.

“Yes, of course, dear” said Seamoan. She looked toward the door, then turned and spoke to me in a soft voice.

“And sometimes it seems like one.”

After a long and awkward silence, I remarked that while the outer walls and the columns were all painted white, the boards of the porch ceiling were of a light blue color.

“Why, that’s for the ghosts, hon,” Seamoan answered.

“Ghosts?”

“It’s supposed to represent water,” Desdemona explained, as she sat down on the swing.

“Which the ghosts don’t like to cross.”

“But,” Seamoan added, “Even if there aren’t any new ones coming in, we’ve still got some old ones inside.” Desdemona nodded her head in agreement.

“In particular, there’s one that’s an older man. We’ve seen him lots of times.”

“I think he’s the one that lost a duel with one of our ancestors,” said Seamoan.

“Shot the hell out of him, didn’t he, Mama?” Seamoan looked at Desdemona with a cold expression, and slowly shook her head.

“We used to think he was here to scare us,“ Seamoan continued, “but now we’re sure he just doesn’t have any better place to go.” She stood up, and while doing so, waved her arm around.

“And why, Mr. Pollen, would he want to leave a place as beautiful as all this?”

I nodded, and I’m sure I grinned, but then quickly added that he also no doubt enjoyed the company of beautiful women. Seamoan paid special attention to me after that, and even gave me one of her late husband’s white suits, which I had to start wearing at dinner.

Just prior to the meal that evening, I went to the restroom, in the hallway near the kitchen, and heard one of the workers talking.

“You remember the last one who wore that suit? I found him laying head first in the dumpster. It took us a whole week to get that suit clean.” They had a big laugh out of that, but let me tell you, I was starting to wonder what I was in for.

Their dining room was something to see. The table seated eighteen, though there were just the three of us that evening. I marveled at the room each time I saw it. The upholstery on the chairs was beautiful; and the paintings and magnificent place settings, I was told, were quite old.

The entrée consisted of grilled New York Strip, roasted garlic potatoes and a sauteed vegetable medley. I had some wine, and quickly felt at ease. In fact, I felt almost refined. Everything seemed good, except that Cherylin kept looking at me like she didn‘t trust me. I figured she had helped raise Desdemona, so she, if anyone, should have known that I would be the victim there.

Seamoan had two glasses of wine, after admitting earlier that she could barely handle alcohol anymore. She began to explain the origin of her late husband’s surname.

“There’s not a drop of Cajun in our blood, you see. The Bouffantalierres came to Mississippi straight from Paris, during the French Revolution. They immediately prospered in planting, obviously. Their first house, which we still own, is a rice plantation outside Biloxi.”

There's another one?  Maybe I should stick around.  Who knows, I might could make a lot of money running it.“

Desdemona’s Uncle Talmadge manages it,” said Seamoan. “We don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“I don’t like it,” Desdemona butted in.

“The house is not Greek Revival like this one,” Seamoan said. “It’s built in the earlier Federal style. But it’s quite lovely.”

“There are too many mosquitoes there,” declared Desdemona. “And the balcony isn't big enough.”

“Well, hon,” answered Seamoan. “You have one here… Maybe you should go out on it now.” A fiery look came over Desdemona, but before she could speak, I quickly changed the subject.

“And the ancestor from Virginia?” I asked.

“Scotch-Irish, on Beauregard’s mother’s side.” That explains Desdemona’s red hair, I thought.

“Those Scots are the most stubborn people!” exclaimed Seamoan.

“Why are you looking at me when you say that?” asked Desdemona, who had an elbow on the table and was twirling her hair with a finger.

“I was just saying, that they are the most stubborn people, that’s all.”

“Why on earth are you looking at me?” asked Desdemona.

“See how she treats me?” said Seamoan. “Her own Mama! Who fed her and loved her as if she’d been anticipated.” Desdemona drank the last drop of her wine and slammed the goblet on the table.

“Mama!” Her face had become almost as red as her hair. Then she lit a cigarette. Seamoan waved her hand in front of herself.

“And please go outside with that.” Desdemona got up quickly, and before I could rise, she planted a huge kiss on me and her hair covered my face. Then she walked toward the front hall.

“Levi, let me show you my balcony.” Glancing back at Seamoan, she added, “There’s enough room to do anything.”

I apologized to Seamoan for having to leave so fast, and thanked her for the lovely dinner.

“You’re quite welcome,“ she replied with a sigh.

“I had such high hopes for her when she was young.” I walked towards the door, thankful that one of the servants had come in, so she wasn’t left there alone. Then I heard her voice again, and so I turned around.

“You know, Mr. Possum, a well-grounded man such as yourself may be just who Desdemona needs.” I smiled just a little, and giving a quick bow, exited the room.


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The next morning was Sunday, and I learned that I was expected to go to church with them.  And to a barbeque afterwards.  At 10:30, Seamoan got behind the wheel of her new white Cadillac, with her sister RaeAnn (the plain one) beside her in the front.  Outside, the humidity was practically unbearable.  While they sat in the air conditioned car, I stood on the porch and waited for Desdemona to come out.  She was probably spraying enough hairspray to addle herself.

After a few minutes, I was just about to sweat myself to death.  Thinking I could go back in, I tried the door but Seamoan had locked it on her way out.  Pretty soon I looked at my watch and it was 10:50.  Seamoan started banging on the horn, and then I heard Desdemona running down the stairs.  She came out wearing an almost sheer violet dress, and started pushing me, saying “Hurry now, or we’ll be late.” 

In the car at last, Seamoan floorboarded it, and started chiding Desdemona.

“She was late when she was born, you know!”  Desdemona ignored her, and turned to me. 

“Levi, you’re sweating like a pig.”  RaeAnn turned back and looked at me.

“Are you nervous or something?” 

“He’s Methodist,” Desdemona said. 

“Don’t worry,” countered RaeAnn.  “A few hallelujahs and amens never hurt anyone.” 

“Methodists don’t do anything,” declared Seamoan.

“Don’t make him feel bad,” Desdemona answered.  “You can’t help it now, can you sugar?”

Then Seamoan stopped to pick up her older sister, Tallulah (the crazy one).  I had been told that she spoke of everything she saw as a tragedy.  Tallulah got in the back, reeking of cigarette smoke.  She took a good look at me, and gave Desdemona an even longer look.  Then she spoke in the raspiest voice I had ever heard.

“Agghh…” she groaned.  “The lord of the manor polishes his pistol… by the light of the candle… and downs another brandy…  Agghh… while his adulterous wife in the next room… slowly destroys all they have with her sins of the flesh.  Agghh… The heat from their passion… becomes the fires of hell… when he shoots them between their wicked eyes.  Agghh…” 

I must have looked like a little boy who had to shit.  Desdemona, though, got quite a laugh from my expression. 

“She’s harmless, dear,” she said. 

We got to the church, and Seamoan drove over the curb while turning in.  I looked at Desdemona, and suddenly it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut, and not bust out laughing.  Desdemona shook her head.

“Mama, your mama can drive better than that, and she’s dead.”  I couldn’t hold it back anymore.  Seamoan shook her head as she looked at us in the rear view mirror.

“Now that’s a hateful thing for my child to say to me.”  Desdemona then started poking and tickling me, to the point that I had to get out of the car before it came to a full stop. I opened the doors for them, and noticed that we were part of a fashionably late crowd.

“We’ll have to sit in the back,” Desdemona said.  “But that’s okay, ’cause we’ll get out first and everyone will see us.  Then she whispered, “But I won’t sit next to that tramp Jennifer Hall.  Just follow my lead if necessary.” 

Once inside, RaeAnn sat down first, then Seamoan.  I bade Desdemona to enter the pew before me, but she stopped.

“I can’t sit next to Mama,”  she whispered. 

Tallulah got in next.  Desdemona didn’t want to sit next to her either, so I had to enter the pew ahead of her, which didn’t look gentlemanly.  Tallulah spoke again.

“Agghh.. There’s a lot of devils in the church.”  I told her I could not agree more. 

When we rose to sing the first hymn of the day, I noticed that nobody was sitting directly behind Desdemona.  Actually, someone had been there there at first, but had moved.  That Baptist preacher was preaching fire and brimstone at us, and I let my mind wander.  It occurred to me that Desdemona would never cut her hair to spite a man.  That would have to mean that she has some kind of feelings for him.  I knew a guy in my hometown of Poville, whose wife went to the bathroom to cut off another inch of hair after every argument.  He was afraid to bring up lovemaking, for fear that she would come out bald.  When the service was over, Desdemona turned to speak to an attractive lady.

“Is that your real hair?  I just love what you’ve done with it.”  I wanted to shake my head, and was just hoping that I’d be able to handle a whole day of it. 

I somehow found myself having to accompany the crazed Tallulah through the churchyard and to the BBQ tables, and felt certain I didn’t deserve it.  She walked with a cane, and being a long-time chain smoker, she kept having to stop to take a puff.  After glancing at some grave markers, she made an observation. 

“Agghh… So many lives torn apart… and land divided over generations of bitter disputes.  The pall of neglect hangs over the barren fields, and the columns of the house rot and fall.  Agghh… It is greed that stalks us all… That evil that grips us by the throats… and drags us to the darkest depths of the tomb.  Agghh…”

By the time she was done, I felt like I had one foot in the grave myself. 
 
Suddenly, a dollar bill blew onto the pathway in front of us.  Before a fellow church member could bend over to pick it up, Tallulah moved with the speed of a cat and slammed the end of her cane on it. 

“I saw it first!  Agghh… Asshole!”

As soon as I had found a seat for her, I just walked away.  I don’t think she knew I was there anyway.  After checking out the other women, I met up with Desdemona and Seamoan.  They spent a lot of time talking about  other women’s husbands, and other women’s hair, and just about everything and everybody in the county worth talking about.

“Have you heard what that tatty Lou Ann Tatnall has done now?” Seamoan asked.

“No, what?” inquired Desdemona, while biting her nails.

“Do tell, Mama!” 

“Well!”  Seamoan raised her eyes to the sky, and shook her head. “I heard she went off with a married man to Memphis, and he’s really good-looking.  And now his wife has tried to kill them both!” 

“Lordy be!” exclaimed Desdemona.  “How did she do it?” “I mean, she just looks old, and she hasn’t been to the Hair Ritz in ages.” 

“Child, I swear I can’t imagine how,” said Seamoan.  “She must have just taken off her clothes in the street or something.”

“And did you hear about Paula Gates?” Desdemona asked.

“No, what happened?” 

“Why, she’s been all over the place with Larry Turner.”

“Really!” exclaimed Seamoan.  “But he’s still married!” 

“I know!”  answered Desdemona.  “I mean, everybody knows that Danette still loves him and doesn’t want a divorce, and yet there he goes after that tart in broad daylight.  They were even in church together, and sat a few rows behind Danette!“ 

“Oh!” gasped Seamoan, as she put a hand to her chest. 

“And that’s not all,” went Desdemona.  She wore that same pink dress that she wore to the policemans ball.  You know the one that was so low cut?  Why, her bosoms were practically doing the Cha Cha!” 

“Surely she’ll divorce him now, don’t you think?” asked Seamoan. 

“I suppose,“ answered Desdemona.  “But the only extra thing he owns is that big house that he rents out.  I mean, it’s nice, but it’s not gonna set her up for life or anything.” 

Getting set up with money was apparently what mattered most to those women. A man at the barbeque asked me if I knew of Desdemona’s younger sister, Eloise.  It seemed that Desdemona had had her committed about the same time that their father died.  Beauregard had previously decided to let both the girls receive a quarter share of the inheritance, with the rest to come after their mother died.  But that wasn’t enough for Desdemona.  When their father died, Eloise happened to be the only other person in the room, and Desdemona accused her of suffocating him with a pillow.  Everyone knew that Eloise could never do such a thing.  She was a kind and artistic sort, it was said, and adored her parents.  Yet, with a doctor friend’s help, Desdemona had it proved that she was insane on the left side of her brain.  She was put away, and no one knew if she’d ever be back.  Least of all, Seamoan.  Whenever she remembered to inquire about Eloise, Desdemona would have an answer ready. 

“She went to France, Mama!”

The first time I heard that, I knew Desdemona had no conscience at all. 

When we got back to the mansion after church, the subject turned to their own husbands.  I was turning the crank to make the peach ice cream, and they came out on the porch, so I had to hear it all.  Seamoan had been married only once.  Desdemona though, was more experienced.  She divorced her first husband, and took him for all he was worth.  Her second husband was shot by a mysterious intruder.  When her third husband died young, doubts were  raised about her character, and she was arrested.  The joke around town was that his family wanted to lynch her, but figured the noose wouldn’t fit over her hair. 

Things looked bad for her at the trial, and she decided to take the stand herself.  Actually, some of the men on the jury would never have found her guilty, for the sake of their marriages.  But she took the stand anyway, with a plan in mind.  Before the prosecution could ask her a single question, she stood and ran up to the jury with a cell phone held high over her head.  Then she turned to face the entire courtroom, and hollered loud enough for all to hear.

“I have nude photos of the judge, the district attorney, and the sheriff!“  The courtroom erupted in chaos, while the jury passed the camera around.  It became the headline of the century for the whole town, and so much attention was paid to it that the trial never resumed.

As for me, I felt no reason to worry, as Desdemona would never marry a man without money.  But I did wonder what would happen if I won a lottery.  In that case, I would have jumped in that Cadillac of hers, and taken off like a bat out of hell.

Speaking of driving, the next day, she picked me up at the run-down house I’d bought. It was one of those pay- a -dollar and promise to fix it up deals.  Except that I never fixed it up.  Anyway, the plan was to attend a wedding.  She wanted me to drive, though the experience was unnerving since I couldn’t see all around because of her hair.  I knew it would have looked odd, but I really wished she had sat in the back.
 
We pulled up to the stop sign where our highway crossed another.  To our right was a sharp curve, and cars were flying ’round it like there was no tomorrow.  I couldn’t see a thing with the burning bush hovering over me, yet I didn’t want to offend, as it might ruin my chances for the evening.  I gave it the gas, but she screamed and I slammed on the brakes.

“You didn’t see that car?” she yelled. 

“Uh, sorry about that, hon.”  I tried again, and the same thing happened.

“What’s the matter with you?  Do you need glasses?”

“No” I told her.  I just looked at her. 

“Well, what is it?“ 

“It’s like this, hon…” 

“Well?”  Desdemona leaned towards me, and held her palms upward.  Her eyebrows had arched, and she looked like the daughter of the devil himself. 

“It’s… your big hair.” 

“What?  What do you mean, my… big hair?”  She was almost frothing at the mouth.  I screamed as loudly as I could.

“I can’t see ‘cause of your big hair!” “I can’t see…” 

I was floor boarding it when a watermelon truck caught us in the middle of the road.  The car spun like a top and watermelons were flying in every possible direction.  When we stopped, the front of the truck was steaming, the car doors wouldn’t open, and pieces of red watermelon were raining down like balls of fire from Vesuvius. 

“What do you mean, my big hair!" she screamed. 

I looked at her, and half a watermelon had landed on the monstrosity.  It had barely gone down at all. 

“What do you…”  She put a finger over one nostril, and blew a piece of red watermelon out the other.  I almost threw up. Then I heard the driver of the truck hollering at us.

“Who taught you how to drive?  The town drunk?”  Actually, he had, though it didn't seem like the time to admit it.  So I sat, and pondered the situation for a second.   

It was at that moment that I knew there was no future for me and a big-haired woman.  I climbed over the door, almost slipped on my back from the watermelon juice, and swore to the world that I’d never go back to Hattiesburg.  I did, but only for the year it took to sell the house. 


Harry McDonald
2006