I have a flat spot.  My mother did it.

It’s the right-side, rear and crown, of my head.  I, like a President I won’t mention, am a practiced comb-over, except mine is on the back-side. In my case, I am also a fierce teaser.  Hair, of course, as this is no laughing matter.  Yet, no amount of follicle manipulation ever disguises that pesky flat spot. It’s been a bane to any hairstyle ever attempted … there have been scores … but every style declares its existence.  Hairdressers have assured, “No one will ever notice,” out of pity I suppose, but I’ve never believed it.  I feel as if a flashing neon sign hovers above me with an arrow pointing straight at the hairy-plain.

And then there are the cowlicks.  Five to be exact, all within a 4-inch diameter circle in the adjacent scalp.  Whirling turbulent hair-nados, each swirling clockwise.  Existence certified by 5 hairdressers and salon owner of a 6-woman shop.  Unanimous.  Little consolation.  Teased indeed.

And undergirding uncooperative hair, a misshaped skull houses a taxed brain.

Undoubtedly well protected from physical injury, my brain is truth-impaired.   That impossibly thick cranium filters the facts of my predicament.  I forever hope.  I’m beguiled and sucked in by any new hair-care-product, be it bottle, box, spritzer, or aerosol can.  I buy into every commercial for a break-through miracle, promising boosted thickness, enhanced height, or concrete control.  I’ve even considered extensions, hair plugs, and wigs, although self-consciousness and cost have prevented experimentation.

Yes, I’m convinced my mother did it.  But I’m sure she never had cruel intentions.

Now, I hope you’ve realized, so far, though true, my words are tongue-in-cheek and in a light vein.  Bad-hair days still exasperate me, but mostly I take them in stride.  Seriously.  No … I guess it should be, not so seriously.

The rest of the story … my mother’s story ... is a network of veins, all in different colors.  Some tongue-in-cheek.  Some funny.  Some not. Some sad.  Some deadly serious.  All true.

I must have been very young the first time my mother told this well-rehearsed tale.  I’ve heard it many times.  It was a favorite of hers, recounting a broad number of philosophies she and my father shared regarding life, marriage, child-bearing and child-rearing, and the resulting compromises and bargains along the way.

She and my father met in 1941.  Prevailing needs of the country and the national spirit of the times, played major roles in their lives.  “Lawrence was a rounder,” she’d say with a flirty little smile, “I always liked my men a little dirty!” which my experience confidently declares meant only that he was the life of the party, he loved to dance to honky-tonk music, he expertly told blue jokes, he cut the fool in general, and he could drink all-comers under the floor.  She was crazy about him, even though … or perhaps because … he was not the kind of fellow her father and mother were hoping she’d bring home. They fell instantly in love, and courted fast-and-furious.

Don’t get me wrong.  My father was a fine man.  He was honorable, loyal, hard-working and courageous.  But he adhered to prevalent themes among his buddies: “Play like hell!  Pay the piper Monday morning,” and “Live today because tomorrow you may croak!”

My mother had a bottom line for courting.  It didn’t happen unless marriage was the pre-agreed destination.  She and he were on the marriage-express and headed for a quick arrival.  Then the war intervened and my father was drafted.  Though she tried to change his mind, he was steadfast – they would wait to be married until he made it back.  If he made it back.

He did return, changed emotionally from the rigors of combatting Rommel’s campaign in North Africa, and physically from injuries sustained in prison camp.  He and my mother were even more in love than before and they married in 1945.

They both still believed in marriage but some tensions surfaced.  Understandable, given what they’d been through.

She now wanted children right away.  He … not so much.  He believed it would be hard to party with rug-rats underfoot.  She didn’t mind the partying, but she wanted to do it at home, just with a few couples, in a more controlled environment.  He was okay with being at home but he wanted all his buddies around and a fluid environment (as in free-flowing fluid - whiskey and beer!).  She would laugh, raise an air-glass, and shout, “The more the merrier!” mimicking my father’s rallying cry.  Deep down, she figured his buddies would tire of partying at the same place and besides they were all married as well.  The party would naturally drop to a few couples.  Eventually she would bring him around to her way of thinking about children.

Couples in current times, could learn a lesson from them.  They talked things over, struck a compromise, made a bargain.  The terms were clear. 

She promised my father could make up for lost time, having as much fun as he wanted, if he’d have his fun at home, and agree to starting a family right away.  My father promised to start a family right away (maximum two kids), if she promised having kids would not change their life-style ‘one iota’ (a favorite phrase of his) and, he could party from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon with as many participants as showed up.

Did the ‘one iota’ snag your attention?

In their defense, it’s a common parental misconception – that having a baby isn’t going to change things.  They truly believed they could bring it off.  They had even discussed justifications to use in case any relatives posed questions.  A consolidated front must be maintained!  A primary list was formulated regarding children.  It included, “it’s backing up to hold your children too much, it spoils them,” “children should be seen not heard … and even being seen isn’t required because they’ll entertain themselves,” “they don’t need constant surveillance, just set the rules, stand by them, and spank when necessary.”

My father’s side of the deal was easy.  Hers not so much.  But she was confident she could figure a way to keep her end of the bargain. 

One of my mother’s main considerations was the issue of breast-feeding.  Despite the time’s favorable sentiment, she was totally opposed and my father was in perfect agreement.  “After all,” she’d reveal with a twinkle in her eyes, “he liked to fool around when no one was looking and he was, after all, a bosom-man.  Mine especially!”

So, my mother thought ahead and engineered a solution to the children equation.  At least for the first couple of years. It worked perfectly, but was the kicker where my head is concerned and the down-fall of my skull.

By the time I was born, she’d fitted a wooden milk crate with chocks for my head and a bottle-holder.  (If the right people had seen it, I think she might have received credit for the proto-type of a car-seat).

She took me out of the crib in the morning, wrapped me tightly in a blanket like a papoose, and put me in the crate.  She chocked my head firmly in place, leaning it toward the bottle-holder, and chocked my body with more blankets.  She carried the crate wherever she wanted, placed it out-of-sight but within ear-shot of her or my father, leaning against a wall, and left me there.

Except for diaper changes, I was in the crate until she put me back in bed at night.  As soon as I could suck without getting choked, the bottle-holder held the bottle.  When I began soft foods, she fed me in the crate.  There I stayed until I outgrew the crate – I understand that happened at about the time when I was expected to begin walking.

Don’t even think child abuse.  Apparently, I didn’t mind.  There was no indication from my mother, or other relatives around at the time, that I even fussed over the confinement. And I walked just fine.

Cause and effect (head-wise) seem clear enough, but, even as an adult, I never tried to connect the dots for her.

Actually, I kept quiet out of respect.  I’ve admired my mother’s ingenuity, not just with the crate but with many other gadgets she fashioned through the years.  And I credit her with my ability to go with the flow and sit quietly though turmoil.  

I applaud them both.  Their determination to face, and forge their way through the challenges of their day is amazing.  They had a clear understanding of what each wanted, warts and all, and they tried to give each other what was needed out of life.  Their compromise, bargaining, and ‘give-and-take’ spiced a marriage that lasted 50 years.  I know he loved her.  She continued to love him from the day he died until she passed 18 years later.  Along the way, she never tired of telling her stories.

Who knew my skull was being flattened and my hair was being squashed every-which-way?  My deviated skull was just an unfortunate, unanticipated, side-effect - never considered and never noticed.  

Besides the physical, I suppose there might have been some impacts to my personality and social skills … but not much bothers me. 

Really!  And NO, I don’t have a tic!

Just a flat spot, cowlicks, and a thick skull!