Memory Lane

Sadie Mordan

Some things never change, and some things always will. Take your hair, for example. Hair becomes greasy and frizzy and longer over time. Its curls may relax and its end may split, and there is nothing you can do about it. I did do a little something about it though, when it was time for my tri-annual haircut. This past week I opted in for a conscious kind of change. My bangs I once knew and loved grew out quite quickly, as did the rest of my hair, and I was desperate to get back that fresh look from four months ago. I texted my hair dresser and was ecstatic when she said she could fit me in on Wednesday. “Great!” I thought, “Now I will fit under the ‘urban chic’ category, as Dr. Califf would say, for our trip to the Met.” I was clearly eager to get to my appointment as I rushed my sister out of ND’s airport lounge. I dropped her off at work, and continued on my merry way to the town of Collegeville. Some minimal traffic later, I was strolling into Mint Hair Studio ready to take some weight off my head. The appointment was business as usual. I was ushered to the hair washing station where a pleasant woman named Katie introduced herself as she went through the steps of shampooing and applying conditioner, before I was guided to the main chair. It was there where I met my hair dresser, Maggie, and we exchanged life recaps of what was new since our last appointment. If you were wondering, her husband still has student loans to pay so he has been budgeting their spending, but she really wanted new kitchen countertops so Maggie worked ridiculous hours during the week of Christmas until she saved up enough money to splurge on the counters she wanted.

As my appointment was coming to a close, I heard the whispers of a song I used to know escape from the speakers in the ceiling. I was immediately transported back into the body of my seventh grade self. I looked in the mirror and it was as if my own eyes saw themselves dim in the reflection, now with a layer of gloss and sudden realization. It was so strange to look at myself in my school uniform and with my new haircut. Both things the polo stretched with years of wear, and my curly bob— were unfamiliar to this seventh grade self who only knew of her soccer uniform, and had long locks unlike the ones now glowing at her. It was like I was experiencing a warped sense of deja vu as I paid at the counter and waded to my car. I raised my phone to see the time; it was about half past five. I contemplated my work load for the night and considered the sunset that was likely to occur later, rather than sooner, due to the “spring forward” of daylight savings. I pulled out onto main street and started surveying the surrounding shops until I found what I was looking for. Yes, that’s it! I thought. That’s the local pizza joint we used to go to, so I must take a left here… and so the journey home began. I was greeted with the familiar backroads of Collegeville and their twenty-five miles per hour speed limits that were rarely followed when no one was watching. Most just remember to slow down when passing Morgan Lane. No police officer ever turned his head in fear of writing a speeding ticket on that road. I passed the building that once belonged to my orthodontist and thought about how I never cashed in my coupons to get a few gift cards after three years of not chewing gum. That sentiment was gone as I rolled to a quiet intersection that lacked street lights, but screamed “you should know where you are, but you’re not certain. Any guesses?” A swift right turn confirmed my guess, and I was relieved to know that my once detailed memory had not completely faded. I looked upon the house of old family friends. If you asked my parents, they would assert our families remained close, but I haven’t spoken to their daughter in years, nor had I seen the lovely display of firewood and fresh eggs now in their front yard.

As I was staring at the farmstand, I recalled a conversation I had with another who told me awhile back about the chickens this family got. I wished I texted the daughter congrats on her commitment to NYU, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Realizing I pulled over onto the side of the road and clicked my hazards on, I unclicked them and resumed my drive through memory lane. Houses of people I used to know, and remains of places I used to go, flashed by as I listened to the album of the song I heard in the hair salon. That is when I saw it. Through the trees, my house; no, my home. I tried not to divert my eyes too long from the road as it would have landed me in either the creek or a car crash, but that was definitely it. I would know those black shutters on that faded red stone anywhere. Two lefts and a trip around a bend would land me at the foot of my driveway. Three shifts of the gear and my car is in park, but the engine stays running with my seatbelt fastened. I could practically see the chalk city on the concrete. The number five on the mailbox remained slightly crooked from when the mailman hit it many years ago. Any stranger making a loop in the cul-de-sac likely wouldn’t notice such a thing, but then again, I’m not a stranger.

That’s my house! Except the garage doors are new, and there’s a basketball net along the fence, and a disturbing, mini stone statue in the form of a dog that is not mine. I’ve never seen those things. But the blades of grass still sway alongside the speckles of dandelions, and you can see the big black chandelier my mom bought through the semi-circle window. My car is in drive; I can’t stay long. If an emotional fit doesn’t find me, I know the little girl who now lives there likely will. Her name is Ava. Her mom told me so when she came to tour my home four years ago. I made a left off of Five Stable Court when I received a call from a friend who still lived in this neighborhood. I had sent him a photo of the house and he immediately wanted to know why I was back in town. I conceded “I was getting a haircut nearby and I thought I’d come see it… I was in need of some inspiration.” He was unsurprised that it was here I always came back to. He understands how much this place means to me. Slightly muted, he responded “Inspiration for what?...what are you going to write about?” I breathed, “For a paper, I think I am going to write about how some things never change, and how some things always will.”