Single Moms of South Pas: My Hair Angel

When help comes knocking, answer the door. It might come from an unexpected source.

My mom has never forgotten the woman who pushed her way into our house.

“Go away; it’s the plague here,” said my mom, who had four vomiting children and was sick herself.

“No, let me in,” the near-stranger insisted and took charge: cleaning, cooking and caretaking. When mom tried to thank her, she said, “You’ll pass it on somehow someday.”

Whenever I’m low and lonely, I fantasize about that woman knocking on my door. Truth is, help walks in from places you least expect— touching our most intimate and vulnerable parts of life—from home to health. And even hair.

My Hero

My son’s first haircut was at Ecco Hair Studio in South Pas. Hair is a huge issue in some cultures, particularly in the black community, and Gabe’s dad always dreaded him going around looking like a “raggedy-ass uncombed biracial kid.”  

In some Jewish families, children don’t get their first haircut until age three. After we separated, Gabe’s dad took him to get his head shaved. I cried. He looked like a concentration camp survivor—except for the chubby cheeks. I decided soon he’d be old enough to decide his own hairstyle: grow it, cut it, braid it, get a design in it—no logos though.

For Gabe’s sixth birthday, an Ethiopian woman gave him twists. In first grade, he wanted cornrows. When I came back from getting him a “do-rag,” he was crying silently while his hair was being tightly braided.

“It’s not worth it, this sacrifice for beauty at seven,” I told him.

“No,” he said, “I want it.”

Gabe has gone to the same barber now for more than seven years: Tony in Altadena. Gabe even invited him to his Bar Mitzvah, and I always feel welcome there, though I’m neither Black nor male.

My hairstylist is one of my heroes. Hair is often linked to life events, and Diane Plitka Kozak at Ecco Hair Studio has nurtured me through mine. When I was carrying around a baby who loved to pull my hair, I got a short,short cut. 

Years later—hair long again—I got lice. Feeling desperate and alone trying to pick out nits by myself, I called Diane begging her to shave my head. I’d already cut Gabe’s hair short, but I feared for my stepdaughter’s luxuriously thick, jet-black locks. 

“Well, sure,” Diane said, “I can cut it all off, but what about your wedding? My Puerto Rican grandmother used kerosene on us.” 

Diane didn’t freak out touching my hair but suggested I try another round of treatment and then decide. The lice went away, and I was married with my long hair styled after a sexy Turkish model.

Six months later, I told Diane I wanted it short. She sat me down, took my hands and inquired about my spouse. 

“We split up,” I said.

Our blended family unblended. My dear stepdaughter no longer lived with us.

“Come back in three months,” she said. “If you still want me to, I’ll cut it then.”

I came back in three months. Like Queen Latifah in The Last Holiday, I told Diane to “make me beautiful.” Every few months, she does just that. People on the street stop me, and ask where I get my hair cut. 

Hairdressers are our unsung heroes. They make us feel gorgeous and special, listen to our sad stories and triumphs, then send us out as a changed person—to face another day.

My parents came to visit in South Pas for three months to get out of the rain. It poured torrentially. My dad caught a virus, almost died and spent the entire period in the hospital.

Diane immediately offered to go to the hospital and trim his hair when she heard. His hair was luscious and thick—nurses and visitors couldn’t resist caressing it. She knew my whole family by then and also cut my mom’s hair. 

During the recession, Ecco stylists offered free haircuts to the unemployed prior to job interviews. Diane gave me the “recession cut/color” that would grow out beautifully for a long time.

How often are we nurtured, caressed or massaged? How often do we sit, sip and relax while being transformed from droopy to radiant? For most single moms, it’s rare.

Like having that helpful woman push her way into my mom’s life, I intend to pass it on somehow someday.