Thoughts On Wigs

Once a week when we were little, my sister's and I attended piano lessons. I have five sisters, so we'd spend a minimum of three hours at the piano teacher's house every Thursday afternoon. One by one we'd join Mrs. Olsen in the piano room and sit, stiff, suffering through 30 minutes of scales and prods. My oldest sister, Carrie, practiced often. She'd sit down at the bench and play anything set before her.  I squirmed and itched through the half hour lesson. Mrs. Olsen would cock her head, squint her eyes and ask how many times I'd practiced last week. Then she'd watch as I twisted and swung my feet under the bench. Most weeks I'd lie and say twice.  She'd inhale and exhale deeply and tell me to practice more the next week. I'm sure that her ears hurt. Even so, I never practiced more than "twice."

Although I didn't enjoy the half hour lesson, I did ultimately enjoy piano lessons. If I could just sit through a half hour with Mrs. Olsen, I'd be rewarded-- 2.5 hours of adventure. My sister, Mollie, also a squirmer, would head up our expeditions through the woods around Mrs. Olsen's house. There we found old tractors, broken canning jars, rotting pieces of felt. Once we found three pieces of an old porcelain sugar bowl. Mollie, being a year older, kept two pieces and I kept one. We could put them together like a friendship rock if we so desired, though I don't recall we ever did.  Once we turned over a piece of old leather and found a Northern Black Widow. Mrs. Olsen didn't appreciate us snooping around her yard, so she made invisible boundaries. Unfortunately, she didn't make us wear the shock collars. We crossed the boundaries and set our watches so as to return to the house by the time Mrs. Olsen called our names, usually with dirty knees and stick-filled hair. 

Eventually, Mrs. Olsen discovered us in our exploratory shenanigans and forced us to stay inside while the other girls played. She gave us coloring books.  Rather than blackening the cloud-shaped outlines, we took to exploring the house. We were told not to go upstairs, so naturally, we challenged each other as to who could go up the furthest. Mollie won-- ascending all twenty steps. She then frantically gestured,  mouthing the words, "You'll want to see this." Tiptoeing up the staircase, and around the corner into the hallway, we peaked into Mrs. Olsen's bedroom. To our delight stood a row of wigs. They were the exact shape and color of Mrs. Olsen's hair. Finding these wigs exceedingly fascinating, we spent most Thursdays sneaking up the staircase.

Intense study of Mrs. Olsen's hairline often carried me through the half hour piano lesson. I was sure I could see where the fake hair met her scalp. I often imagined what her real hair looked like. Was it a bad color? Was she bald? I sometimes imagined her with a covert lifestyle. Perhaps, under the white, curly wig, she hid a mohawk or better yet, dreadlocks for her secret band life. Maybe, her piano bench contained, not just pieces by Beethoven and Bach, but also Beetles covers, or better yet, Spice Girls.  The wigs gave me hope that she could break the piano teacher stereotype. One Thursday, Mollie and I forgot to set our watches. We panicked as she called Mollie's name and clambered down the stairs like a couple of elephants. After that she allowed us to play outside, once again attempting to enforce the invisible boundaries. Once again, Mollie and I took to the woods.

Although we never climbed the stairs again, I often wondered about the wigs. Mrs. Olsen became something of a mystery where before she was simply the boring piano teacher. In fourth grade, I acquired braces. They came with little hooks so that I could attach headgear at night. She shook her head and muttered about how kids are getting braces younger and younger. I studied her hairline. Every week she asked how often I'd practiced. I answered and studied her hairline. That year, I also wore socks with bells on them to the big Christmas piano recital. She called my name to play Jolly Old St. Nicholas and I walked up, slowly, awkwardly. My sisters giggled in the background as the bells rang out with every step towards the piano. During the next lesson she rose her eyebrows and smiled, "Perhaps next year you can play the Carol of the Bells?" 

Odd, she jokes. 

Sadly, for me,  Mrs. Olsen never really broke the boring stereotype. Eventually, she moved into a smaller house. To our dismay, the new house had a white picket fence--a real boundary.  When she caught us playing outside of the fence she again bound us to the house. This house was small enough so she could watch us during each sister's lesson. Eventually, I forgot about her wig. When I remembered it, I pictured her bald. 

One year, Mrs Olsen grew too tired to keep us on as students. We attended piano lessons with another lady. My oldest sister, Carrie showed up for a few weeks and then discontinued. Under Mrs. Olsen's care, she'd grown too talented to be taught by the new teacher. Eventually, the piano playing fizzled out around our house. The clumsy scales grew silent and I no longer attempted to save face by claiming to practice twice a week. A simple, "I didn't practice" sufficed. The piano grew older with us, going more and more out of tune. Keys stuck. The foot peddles stuck. Dust settled. 

Now, when I blow the dust off the piano and sit, I recognize the keys, the notes. I can easily read music, but my fingers are just as clumsy with scales and rhythms. I pick up where I left off. Mollie, having taken a few more lessons during college, can, with a little practice, pick up some piano music and play.  Carrie doesn't own a piano but when music is placed before her she studies it like one studies an old friend. Then she places her hands on the keys and she plays. Muscle memory from thirteen years ago echoes through her fingers, a sort of ghost of the grandeur while under Mrs. Olsen's teaching, but still strong, still beautiful.

I wish I could say that I heard Mrs. Olsen play and the beauty of Beethoven changed my perception about her cranky persona.  Perhaps if I could hear her play now, I'd be paralyzed by her talent and sad that I'd wasted her time with lies, clumsy fingers, and thoughts on wigs. When Carrie plays, I still picture Mrs Olsen's dreadlocks and share the secret smile with her, the barely noticeable smile that showed when she pursed her lips, looked at me through the corners of her eyes, and did something I thought unattainable for the old lady: she'd contrived a quip.