Love Is in the Hair

Her hair looked the same my whole life, until it didn’t. 

In every photo I saw of my grandma in her adult life, and each time I saw her in person, her hairstyle was identical: a full-volume bob, shiny light brown with hints of red. She maintained it with a mix of curlers and regular visits to the beauty parlor. Seventy years of the same cut, color and style.

To me, her hair embodied her energy, its uniformity year after year yet another way she showed her constant loving presence in my life. She was a dynamo and a force, the glue of our family.

Multiple times a year, our family of four would make the four-hour journey up 95 North from Rockville, Maryland, to my grandparents’ house in Teaneck, New Jersey. My dad would allow one quick stop for gas because we had to make good time. The “cloud makers” would come into view, a sign we were getting close. I later learned they were the smokestacks of large industrial plants.

Author Rachel Azaroff celebrated her 2002 high school graduation with her grandparents.

Courtesy Rachel Azaroff

Pulling into the driveway, I could see her hair before I would really see her and my grandfather standing at the door, greeting us with big hugs and kisses and the usual questions from my grandma: “How was the drive? Are you hungry? Let me get you something to eat.”

I’d walk into the living room and see the dried apricots, salted cashews and chocolate-covered raisins in glass bowls out on the coffee table for us to nibble. On the kitchen counter stood white boxes tied with red and white twine: the signature wrapping of Butterflake, a local bakery. My grandma had picked up my two favorite desserts, rugelach and apple pastry, and the sweet smells of apple, chocolate, butter and sugar wafted in the air.

My grandparents would likewise visit us a few times a year. I’d get home after swim practice and see their Buick with the Garden State New Jersey plates. I’d walk in to see everyone hanging out around the kitchen island getting dinner ready, my grandma with her bobbed hair, large glasses and a curve-hugging outfit. The white boxes with red and white twine sat on the counter with their familiar sweet smells.

Baby Rachel visited her grandmother in Teaneck, New Jersey, in this 1984 photo.

Courtesy Rachel Azaroff

In the morning, I would wander down to the basement guest room to hang out while she was getting ready. This was one of the few moments where it was just the two of us. She’d be in her robe with curlers in her hair, “putting on her face,” as she called it.

I have curly hair and never used curlers, rarely even a blow dryer. I found her routine perplexing but loved hanging out with her as she did it.

Her hair had even more volume in the humidity of South Florida, where she and my grandpa made their southern snowbird migration for 20 winters. She would be in her robe with curlers in her hair, drinking instant Folgers and stirring oats on the stove. A half grapefruit with the sections already sliced and prepared was ready for my breakfast when I visited most years. I knew she used the antique paring knife that came with the condo she’d inherited from her aunt and uncle.

Every visit included a trip to Jaxson’s Ice Cream, an old-fashioned ice cream parlor. She’d always say, “They have this special here, The Original Kitchen Sink. A scoop of every ice cream flavor in a literal kitchen sink. Can you believe it?!”

Until it became too much for my grandparents, we had an annual family tradition of a New York theater weekend. We’d meet for Saturday lunch and a Broadway matinee. My grandma made picking the show we’d see into an art form: a triangulation of Tony Awards, New York Times reviews and word of mouth from her friends and Joan Hamburg, a local radio personality whom my grandmother spoke of as if they were old pals.