To Heaven with Love

This is what Heaven must feel like.

Mesmerizing fragrances wafting all around.

Water 'not too hot, not too cold' flowing down my hair.

Angel hands massaging my head.

Yes, definitely Heaven.

My zen zone is interrupted by my talented hair stylist.

"I'll meet you at my station, okay?" she says as she expertly wraps my hair in a towel.

I sit on the salon chair, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

I think of my dad.

It's becoming a thing these days. Thinking about dad at random times. Most definitely at the hairdresser.

My dad had amazing hair, you see. And he groomed it well.

The bells and whistles he used to keep his mane immaculate were legendary. Fancy hairdressers, grooming rituals, the new 'it' product - you name it.

Acquaintances with thinning hair would comment on the lushness of his hair at social gatherings. While close friends would pull on it at intimate dinners, hoping (desperately) that it would come off.

This last thought brings a smile to my face.

These interactions made for some hilarious moments in my growing years— uncles competing for who had the most (or should I say the least) hair.

My mind shifts back to the present as my stylist snips, blow dries, and teases my hair into submission. An hour later, I am presented with my very own mane of perfection.

'I got his hair.' I think matter-of-factly as I pay and head for my car. Pleased that I get to keep this part of him.

This part that no one can take away from me. Not even you, Heaven.

As if on cue (or perhaps a comeback?), sunlight streams into my car and hits my hair at an unflattering angle.

I notice that my part looks wider than usual. And is that a thinning spot right in the front of my head!? ##$%!!!

My upbeat mood starts to evaporate.

The familiar feelings of anger, loss, and the unfairness of life asking one to move on without a loved one engulf me.

I sit with these feelings — my phone pings.

My assistant texts that the roof is leaking at the office. I reflexively add a note to my to-do list to call the landlord in the morning.

A memory flashes of Dad making to-do lists and crossing them off.

Okay, I got that part. My mood starts to lighten.

Over the weekend, I host a get-together for friends. Dad loved to entertain.

As I planned the dinner menu, memories flashed of my parents discussing appetizers and main courses over a cup of morning tea.

More of him. Good.

Then Diwali comes around.

I find myself standing at a friend's door - decked in Indian finery, holding a plate of sweets, wishing her love and light. Most definitely him.

No matter where I looked or how much evidence of him not being around I looked for, the more I found him - in my face, in the way I organized an event, or in the way I handled a difficult situation.

It was comforting to know that he visited me so often. In fact, I realized he never left.

He simply gave me the tools to finish the job that he had done so well - The job of growing up, getting things done, and living a full life.

So now, when he sits back and relaxes in a comfortable chair, I can't really complain.

How can I?

He looks happy.

Angel hands are massaging his hair; mesmerizing fragrances are all around him.
He's smiling, and his white T-shirt says, " Sorry, but not really sorry."