The Adventures of Geo Beane: Day 8 of Renovations

It was long dull day waiting for Humphrey.

hmph.

I was stuck once again at Mrs. B.'s. and though we enjoyed the sun outdoors and shade inside, it was still mostly a waiting. Midway through the day we took Bonnie to get her haircut. The poor girl cried the entire time, and then wailed for hours after, and was just not herself for the rest of the day. It was like she had imploded to the inside after "losing her hair." I could not understand. She looked cute. We could finally see her face, instead of a shaggy mess.

I myself love to go to the groomers. Humphrey makes me a regular appointment for a doggie shampoo and trim several times a year. I sit very patiently for the preening and pampering. I even get a biscuit treat afterward. But Bonnie had some strange mystical attachment to her locks. After the cut, she simply refused to look out into the world. She shut her eyes and put her hands out when walking, zombie like. I have never seen a human respond in such a way. I think she thought herself invisible, at least to herself.

She even asked Mrs. B. irrationally, "Mama can I please have my hair back now?"

Mrs. B. fussed and wrung her hands. She worried that Bonnie maybe had gotten soap in her eyes, or hair clippings, or maybe was coming down with fever, or teething... but no such thing. It was most definitely all provoked by The Hair Cut.

She is three. I know that older humans have very strong sentiments about tresses, with long cultural significance, and nostalgia and prestige even. But at three? ...I was quite intrigued by the question whether the value of hair among Humans was acquired or intrinsic; inherent or innate?

When we finally got home, I wanted to tell Humphrey and ask his opinion, but God Bless him, he had not even appeared to notice. He simply smiled at Bonnie and said, "Hello kid, how's my favorite neighbor?" and gave her the pink magnetic drawing board that she had eyed in our kitchen with keen interest the day before. She took it in chubby fingers and promptly sat down to make different sized circles and dots on it. Eyes open. Good old Humphrey. He knew instinctively just what to do to help her look past herself.

The board had belonged to Humphrey's little cousin, and he occasionally used it to doodle ideas, but mostly kept it for sentimental reasons, and for when youngsters would come to visit. The magic of the MagnaDoodle never failed to entertain and offered little ones more control than its predecessor the Etch-A-Sketch, which challenges even adults.

But my Humphrey was terrifically excited. He grabbed me under his arm with an extra squeeze and frumple of my top noggin; and I licked his hands and arms in return. His day, he said, had been full and fantastic. He talked nonstop about painting the ceilings and the hallway, about teetering on the ladder, and resolving the dilemma in the foyer. He was now painting all sorts of things gold, or partly gold, like doors, closets and even the ceiling in the front entranceway.

Mmrrrgh.

Move in day still seems so far away; indefinite.

"Geo Beane, tomorrow we are taking a trip to Indiana. It'll put a little break in our progress on the home front, but we'll redouble our efforts when we return." And he went to take a brisk shower, singing all the while, the Copacabana.

We'd been to Indiana before, and I remember the landscape looming with huge mechanical farm outcroppings. Corn fields yes, but behind these seemingly ordinary stalks towered robotic like forms of Industry.

"Steel," Humphrey had said with a frown, last time we passed through, and I had no idea what he meant.