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Thursday, 04 December 2008

My Name is Jo

By Jo Ferguson

Can you imagine anyone’s parents picking such a name for their tiny, just born baby? I don’t know what kind of vision the name conjures up in your mind, but in mine I can only think of a pale, curly haired red-headed child. To tame her unruly hair her mother would try to weave the strands into pigtails, but lots of loose kinky tendrils would poke out from them, like they had claustrophobia and couldn’t stand being bound up so tightly.

My name is Jo but I don’t have red hair. In fact, I don’t even have any waves or curls. Mine’s straight as a field of corn reaching for the sunshine. My hair is what I call “mousey brown.”

When I was small I used to try to catch little hunchback mice in the fields near our home; their soft fur was almost the same dun color as my hair. It was good camouflage for them for they blended in with the dead grasses in the fields, but for me, I didn’t want to blend in, I wanted to stand out.

My hair became the bane of my existence. How was I to be a famous fashion model with hair that couldn’t be charmed into any configuration? How could I be a beautiful actress with a dull mop of hair? I was too young to know that women tinted their hair any color they wanted or added highlights in a variety of shades. I hadn’t stepped out into the wider world; I still lived in that safe, sanitary cloud that enveloped me and my young neighborhood friends.

Not only was I tagged “mousey” Jo from the first moment I breathed fresh air, I also was left untagged without a beautiful middle name. My parents gave me one short name that couldn’t be shortened to a nickname.

Oh I wish I could have been a part of their conversations regarding choosing names. I might have suggested Victoria Elizabeth, a name that conjures up a vision of a young girl dressed in soft, violet velvet with shoulder-length blonde wavy tresses. I also like the name Elizabeth for it can have wonderful changes like Betty, or Lizzie. But Jo I was christened and that moniker will always be hung around my neck.

Perhaps for that reason I shunned ruffles and lace on my dresses. My mother used to sew all my clothes and always wanted to add some gee gaw or ruffles to every outfit to make me look more like a little girl.

One of my playmates had lovely golden curly locks. I was so jealous of that beautiful hair that I once made my mother give me a permanent, but of course the results were disastrous. Every single thin strand kinked up like a corkscrew and I immediately made her cut most of it off. My other young neighbor had thick, long, luxurious auburn hair, and even though she wore glasses and had braces on her teeth, I was still envious of her mane.

But now this Jo is an old woman with thinning, wispy hair. I thought about getting a wig, maybe a blond one that falls in waves to my shoulders, but truthfully, my hair doesn’t bother me that much anymore - well, except when I look in the mirror, which I try to avoid. And my name has just become “plain old” Jo to everyone at the nursing home, including me.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. Instructions are here.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 02:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post

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