Frances Faith Chastity
Grace Hedspeth was buried on a Thursday morning in June. My older sister,
Faith, had calculated that it was the 79th day of Momma’s 79th
year when we laid her to rest. My younger sister, Grace, said Momma’s funeral
hadn’t come a day too soon. We three, burdened with Momma’s middle names since our
births ten years apart, sat cross legged and fidgeting as friends, family, and
neighbors stopped to pray over Momma in her casket and toss a ceremonial spade
of dirt in the hole. We three were dressed from head to toe in black—for that’s
what Momma taught us about proper etiquette at a funeral—except for the
turquoise ribbon Grace used to tie back her hair. That girl was always a bit of
a rebel.
As soon as the minister
turned his palms upward, lifting his eyes to the clear blue sky while offering
final words of advice to God about keeping Momma in heaven, Faith, Grace and I
bolted from our graveside chairs, waving away our guests as we each took to our
own appropriately somber and practical vehicles. I had no idea why my sisters
were in such a hurry, but I had a post-funeral appointment with my hair stylist
and I didn’t want to be late.
“Are you sure you want this purple?” the stylist asked.
“Sure as my momma is
dead and buried,” I replied. “That’s a yes,” I confirmed when the stylist just
furrowed her brow in response.
“Now honey,” she said,
“this ain’t no rich, black hair dye that only looks purple when the light hits just right. It’s not burgundy.
It’s not deep red. This here hair dye is flying-purple-people-eater vi-o-let.”
“Perfect,” I answered,
smiling extra big to show her just how sure I was. Then I smiled a little less
in case she thought I just looked crazy.
