Why I Let My Hair Grow Out

by Maryrose Wood

  There was so much to say, but everything was beginning to blur around the edges. “Good-bye!” I called, as Fergus picked me up again. My long hair whirled like streamers, making golden-red circles around us as we turned. “Don’t wait for me, okay? Have a good life. I don’t know when I’ll be b—”

  twenty-one

  Cornflower-blue eyes in a freshly-shaven face, magic lips curved into a smile that was so very familiar.

  “Colin!” I threw my arms around his neck and started to cry.

  “There, there now, Mor! What’s burst the plumbing all of a sudden?”

  The clean aftershave smell of a modern man was like cat-nip. I buried my face in Colin’s neck and made a wish that I could hide there forever.

  I was back. I was Morgan. My hair was gone and I was in a strange bed, wearing a man’s sweatshirt and tucked under two layers of twenty-first-century thermal polyester fleece blankets. I was freezing and my teeth were chattering.

  And Colin was sitting on the edge of the bed, warm and damp and naked except for a towel, which he was finding hard to keep wrapped around his waist with me hanging on to him.

  “Easy, there,” he said, grabbing the towel as it nearly slipped off. “Let me at least get me Y-fronts on so we can converse like civilized people, eh?”

  Forever in the neck plan canceled, for now. I let go of Colin and looked around. We were in a small Ye Olde Quaint Irish Inn-type bedroom that—as far as I knew—I’d never seen before.

  “This whole time I’ve been in the shower and you’re still shivering!” Colin said, sounding alarmed. “I’m bringing you some soup and that’s that. You stay here and do as you’re told. I shouldna have let you stay in the water so long; you’ve caught a chill right to the bone. And then driving back in your wet clothes, tsk! What a madcap pair we are, eh?” He held his towel on with one hand and rummaged through the bureau drawer with the other.

  “If Patty finds you here in my room, yer man’ll be looking for work by morning,” he said, tossing his clothes everywhere. “But you were shivering and shaking and mumbling the whole drive back from the beach. I didn’t want to leave you alone till you started acting sensible. How are you feeling now?”

  We just got back from the beach? Brand new tears started running down my cheeks. Was I happy? Sad? Feelings are not so easy to label sometimes.

  “What’s the matter, Mor? Are you all right?” He looked so sweet and unself-conscious, standing there in his bare feet. “You’re not upset about what happened tonight, are ye? We had a bit of a moment there, you and me, but all’s well now; I was never really mad at ye, how could I be. . . .”

  We just got back from the beach. My Long-ago adventure had taken, what? An hour? Two? The time-space continuum works in strange and mysterious ways.

  “I got scared.” I sniffed, knowing he wouldn’t understand. “That I was gone too long.”

  He grinned. “Well, ye did stay underwater long enough to give your ol’ pal Colin the devil’s own scare! How was I to know ye’ve got lungs of iron?”

  He prattled on about Jacques Cousteau and some woman who’d swum the Irish Sea, but I felt more like the guy in the Christmas movie who helps the angel get his wings. Or the old guy in the other Christmas movie who’s stingy and mean and gets his ass whipped by a bunch of ghosts, but still wakes up in time to buy a Christmas turkey for his gimpy kid-friend, Tiny Tim.

  Goddess bless us, every one. And speaking of gimpy, Colin was becoming a hilarious sight standing there in a towel, clutching a pair of tighty-whities and staring at me like I was the one who looked like a nut.

  “What an expression ye’ve got on your mug! What on earth are you brooding about, lass?”

  “Christmas,” I said, laughing and crying harder. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand, and it never once occurred to me that he would think I was gross. “I’m glad I didn’t miss it.”

  “It’s July, Morgan,” he said patiently, searching for a matching sock. “Nobody’s missing Christmas at the moment.”

  “It’s just that I’ve been homesick,” I said, trying to explain.

  “For your ma and da?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “For here.”

  “Ah,” he said. He walked over and sat on the bed next to me again. “That I understand. But you’ll be back, never fear.” Colin wrapped me tighter in the blankets, speaking softly in my ear. “Ireland is like that for some people—it gets in your blood and you can’t stay away for long. Now keep still till I come back with the soup.”

  “You should put some clothes on first,” I said.

  “Right-o.” He grabbed a pair of pants and ran back into the bathroom.

  I rubbed my head. It felt so weird not having any hair. But it would grow back.

  me. in my padded bike shorts, standing On a huge stone slab with Lucia and Carrie.

  Me, Heidi, Johannes, Sophie and Derek, in a giggling human pyramid near the door of an old stone castle.

  Me, again, upside down, holding my bike and scowling at the camera as a cute little sheep waved its feet in the air.

  “Whoops! Slide’s in cockeyed, hold on.” Patty took the slide out and squinted at it in the light.

  “I keep telling you, a digital camera and a laptop running PowerPoint would do a much better job of this, Patty,” Colin grumbled.

  “You and your techno gadgets!” she scolded amiably, as she popped the slide back in the carousel.

  All better now—I was standing on the ground, grinning, and the sheep was sniffing at my feet.

  I hadn’t missed Christmas, and I hadn’t missed the bike tour either. By the time the week was over it was like I’d gotten two Irish vacations for the price of one. What a bargain! My dad would be pleased, if he ever knew.

  The photos Patty showed us after dinner on our last night together made it easy to remember all that had happened. This was the vacation I’d talk about when I got home and people asked me about my summer.

  I had a great time in Ireland, I’d say. I stood on a stone slab. I visited a castle.

  And if I closed my eyes, I could see other pictures as well:

  Me, in long hair and a cream-colored princess dress, swimming after a mermaid to the bottom of the sea.

  Me, dancing to the music of a harp and a flute and a drum, as Fergus laughs and throws me back in a low tango dip.

  I got along great with my tour mates and my ass never got sore.

  Me, talking to a horse; me, arguing with a queen; me, racing down a magic field holding a hurley stick while thousands of faeries looked on.

  The scenery was beautiful, and there were friendly sheep floating upside down in the air everywhere we went.

  Which were more true? The pictures on the screen or the pictures in my head? I thought of my family photo albums: Did I actually remember being that bald baby on the sheepskin, the chubby blond toddler in the frilly dress at the zoo clutching a stuffed penguin, the strawberry-haired girl napping with her infant sister? Or was it the photos I remembered, and my parents’ stories about them that I’d heard a million times?

  Answer: Who cares? It was me in the pictures and me in the stories, and between them both and my own memories I could put together a pretty good map of where’d I’d been and where I might be going. But who could I tell about my Long-ago adventures? I knew I wouldn’t believe me if I told those stories to myself.

  “We have a tradition, here at the Emerald Cycle Bike Tour Company,” said Patty, in a tone of jolly warning. “We call it the Emerald Awards, and everybody wins one. They’re all in good fun, remember, and we hope you’ll be entertained.” Patty took out her inevitable clipboard. “To Heidi: The Woman of Many Tongues Award, for her fearless assault on the English language.”

  Patty handed her a certificate. “Thank you! I am loving the English!” exclaimed Heidi. “And the Irish slang, it is a bloody fekkin’ wonder!”

  “Easy on the language, dear,” Patty said. “To Johannes,” she continued. “The Tireless Steed Award, for che
erfully providing horsy rides to the children even after a long day on the bike.”

  “Neigh!” whinnied Johannes, as Sophie and Derek clapped in delight. That neigh sounded awfully familiar.

  “To Carrie Pippin: The Golden Hoop Award, in honor of her passion for—what does this say, Colin?”

  “Bling.” Colin rolled his eyes.

  “That’s not a word, is it?” asked Patty, puzzled.

  “Aye, ’tis,” said Colin, exasperated. “Just read it, Pat, before everyone realizes how out of touch ye are with the modern world.”

  “Fine then. In honor of her passion for ‘bling.’ ” She handed Carrie her certificate.

  “Did you see the Claddagh ring Stuart bought me?” Carrie gushed. She held out her hand for all to admire. “Isn’t it pretty? And it’s so Irish!”

  Everyone leaned close to admire the ring, but I already knew what it looked like—two hands clasped around a heart, with a crown on top.

  “Just like on Buffy.” Carrie sighed romantically. “God, I would have been great in that part.”

  “Which brings us to Stuart!” said Patty. “To him we bestow The Best and Final Offer Award. I think we’ve all learned something about—”

  “Sorry, hold that thought—” Stuart said, raising a hand. “Got a call coming in.” He held the BlackBerry to his ear.

  “Hey-hey, Stevie!” he said. “This isn’t a great time; can I call you—hello? Hello? Can you hear me? Ow!” A big spark exploded next to his ear and made him jump back.

  “That Spielberg,” he joked nervously, staring at the smoking carcass of his BlackBerry. “Always with the special effects.”

  “You’ll be needing a new one of those, I reckon,” Patty remarked. “To our dear Lucy Faraday: The Happily Ever After Award, because we know there is much joy awaiting you in life.” Lucia’s certificate came with a big hug from Patty. When she sat down again, I hugged her too.

  “Although Mrs. Billingsley cannot be with us tonight due to her medical situation, in absentia we present her with The Aching Gut Award, for bravery under duress.”

  The Billingsley children laughed heartily at this and clutched their sides with dramatic groans.

  I’d found a note from Mrs. Billingsley slipped under the door of my room this morning.

  I cannot thank you enough for the way you’ve taken care of Sophie and Derek this week. What a wretched time for me to get colitis!

  “A few more awards!” announced Patty. “To Mr. Billingsley: The King of his Castle Award, for gracefully managing a family under severe pressure, without resorting to violence, heh heh!”

  But because you volunteered to help mind the children, their holiday was not ruined; in fact I’m quite sure they had a better time with you than they would have with their father and myself!

  “To young Sophie: The Disappearing Act Award, for her superlative skills in games of hide-and-seek! We almost left you in Killarney, you little minx!”

  Because of you, Mr. B. was able to take the most tender care of me during my illness (and I am quite remarkably on the mend, by the way; all the doctors say so).

  “To Derek: The Future Rugby Star Award!”

  “You’ve got a mean kick there, pal—keep practicing!” said Colin, giving Derek a friendly clap on the back.

  I do believe the experience has strengthened our marriage, and for this we owe you further thanks. If you ever need a place to stay in London, we would be honored to have you as our guest.

  Warmest regards,

  Mrs. B.

  “And last, but certainly not least. To Morgan.” The room got quiet.

  “The Changeling Award,” said Patty. “ ’Tis an old Irish myth that the faeries will sometimes come and steal a sweet baby from its cradle, leaving a foul-tempered changeling in its place.”

  Colin buried his head in his hands and stamped his feet in frustration. “Oh, not the old Irish myths again, Patty!”

  She shot him a look that could flame broil a Whopper. “Some say,” she went on, “in order to be rid of a changeling, you must trick it into revealing its true age.”

  I had to cover my mouth to squelch a sudden fit of hysteria. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Colin was in a similar state.

  Patty ignored our bad manners. “However it happened, we salute Morgan for the changes she made this week. Frankly I wasn’t too sure you wanted to be here at first.” My face was turning purple from the effort not to laugh, and Colin’s fingernails were digging into my jeans. “But after a rough start you became a wonderful playmate for the children, a kind and cheerful companion for Lucia, a patient English tutor for Heidi and Johannes—”

  “She saved my ass by finding that earring!” added Carrie.

  “And she’s a wicked good dancer,” added Colin. “Remember Durty Nellie’s, nudge nudge, wink wink?”

  Durty Nellie’s was the one thing I really couldn’t remember about this trip, but so what? Nobody remembers everything about themselves, anyway.

  “I can say truly,” Patty intoned, sounding very regal, “none of us would have had such an enjoyable trip without you.”

  “Particularly the children,” said Mr. Billingsley warmly, as Patty handed me my award.

  “Which reminds me!” Patty put away her clipboard and stood up straight, her formidable chest on queenly display. “Repeat customers get a ten-percent discount, so do call us again! There are so many wonderful parts of Ireland left to explore. The Burren, the Ring of Kerry, the Dingle Peninsula . . .”

  “The Dingle is my favorite,” Colin whispered to me. “And it’s the closest bit of Ireland to Connecticut, so now I like it even more. You come back for that one, all right?”

  “Dingle,” I said. “I always liked that name.”

  twenty-two

  the next morning Colin drove me to the airport, and he even sprung for the short-term car park so he could walk me inside.

  Much too soon we arrived at the spot where I would proceed to the gate with all the ticketed passengers, and he had to stand there watching me go. The Leaving Point, they should have called it. He kissed me good-bye, but not the way we’d kissed on the beach. He pressed those magic lips against my cheek and let them linger there just long enough for us both to remember. Long enough to make a promise too.

  “I have a wee present for you,” he said.

  “It better be wee,” I said. “My carry-on already won’t zip.”

  “Is it my fault you’re a pack rat?” He grinned. “Here. Don’t get your hopes up; it didn’t cost me a penny.”

  It was a book, an old one. The corners were frayed and there were deep creases in the spine. The letters on the cover were stamped, with only a few dull flecks left to show they’d once been embossed in gold.

  “ The Magical Tales of Ireland,” I read.

  “That’s the book my grandparents used to read to me from when I was a boy-o.” He sounded embarrassed. “I thought you might enjoy it. You seem to have developed an interest in all that faery claptrap.”

  The book was heavy with the weight of being read a thousand times. “Colin—this is part of your childhood,” I said. “You shouldn’t give it away.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I want you to have it,” he said sheepishly. “Hang onto it for me, anyway. Time to clear off the dusty shelves and make room for the new! I got a whole pile of books I’ll be reading for school next year, UNIX programming and human interface design, virtual communities, viral marketing, all dry as dust.”

  “I love it,” I said. “Thank you. I’ll read it on the plane.”

  “Only if the film’s a bust,” he said, deadpan. “Anything from the eighties with Chevy Chase in it, you can feel free to skip. Bye luv.”

  With a wink and a tip of his imaginary hat, he was gone.

  that colin. he almost got me, but Of course aer Lingus didn’t show movies from the eighties. The “in-flight entertainment” was a recent film that starred one of those stand-up comics from Comedy Central playing all th
e parts, most of them involving fake boobs and wigs and bad accents. I decided to skip it anyway.

  The Magical Tales of Ireland. I turned the yellowed pages until I found the table of contents. “How Cúchulainn Got His Name,” was one story. “The Enchantress Morganne, Protector of the Realm of Ulster,” was another.

  I put the book away. I’d read it later, but not now. For what could be more magical than to fly across the sea? To get on a plane and then off again, a world away and back in time from where you began?

  even With the difference between greenwich mean Time and Greenwich, Connecticut, time, my plane didn’t arrive till late. My dad picked me up at the airport, and he and Mom were so overjoyed to see me you’d think I’d been gone for thousands of years.

  Tammy was already asleep when I got home, but the next day at breakfast when the four of us were finally together (my dad even took the morning off from work in honor of my homecoming), my parents said they had something to show me. They were pretty excited about it.

  “It’s Riverdance!” Dad said, pushing the Arts section of the Connecticut Post in front of me. “The famous Irish dance troupe. They’re performing in Stamford tonight. Would you like to go?”

  I stared at the ad.

  The dancers were in pairs. Each couple stood cheek to cheek, one set of arms extended, hands tightly clasped, bodies arched together in a deep, sexy dip.

  Oh fek. Riverdance was doing the tango.

  But then I looked at the photo of the tangoing Irish dancers, and the more I stared at it the less strange it seemed, until finally it didn’t seem strange at all.

  “No thanks,” I said, handing the paper back. “I was kinda planning to stay home and tell Tammy a bedtime story tonight.”

  “You are?” Tammy couldn’t believe her luck. “What is it about? Is it a long one? Make it about a princess, please!”