Mike Maddock In all my 35 years of existence, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen my mother get her hair wet while swimming. I grew up thinking there was some evil presence just below the surface of the water that would have attacked the follicles on my mother’s head. The attack would have sent her careening for a bathroom with hot oil treatments, curling irons, and cans of hairspray. She would have only emerged from that bathroom after several hours of primping, therapy, and teasing. Who would want that? So I supported her and protected her from the random splashes of the other little kids.

As a teenager, I knew the only evil presence below the surface was the fact any amount of water would destroy the hair–do my mother had gotten up at 5 am to prepare day after day. My rebellious tendencies led me to try to figure out ways to submerge that perfectly styled head of hair. I’d try to get her to jump in the deep end of a pool telling her the deep water didn’t actually start for another couple of feet from the edge. I’d tell her the ocean waves weren’t that rough, especially once she got past the breakers.

But she didn’t keep her hair dry all those years by being naïve or untalented. I wasn’t dealing with some amateur. She could jump in 12 feet of water, spread her arms and legs and stop herself cold before her head ever touched the water like she’d landed on some underwater platform put there for just such an occasion. She developed a method of swimming, which can only be described as inhuman. With her head well above the surface and her arms and legs working in unison below, she could navigate the ocean with all the skill of a loggerhead turtle poking its head above the waves searching for a good spot on the beach to lay its eggs. My rebellion was no match for such talent.

As I grew older, I learned to appreciate my mother’s skills. In fact, I gave her credit for being one of the first environmentalists because she must have known from a very early age all those aerosols she put on her head could not have been good for all the waters she so cautiously avoided or the creatures living in them.

As she “turtled” passed me one day, I asked her why she didn’t just wear a swim cap.

“Because, my dear,” she responded with a look of superiority, “that would look silly.”

The other day, my mother visited my family at the pool. Much to my dismay, the woman I grew up with, the grandmother of my three kids, promptly climbed on the diving board, took a couple of bounces, and dove head–first into twelve feet of water. She came out dripping–wet and smiling. While my kids cheered her surprisingly good form, I looked at her soggy head with astonishment. Of course, due to the wonders of modern technology and waterproof mascara, her make–up was perfectly intact, but her hair was a mess. I didn’t know whether to cheer, cry, or laugh.

When she saw the obvious look of confusion on my face, she looked at me and explained, “I had to show the kids I could dive if I was going to ask them to dive for me.” When that wasn’t good enough, she winked and said, “Plus, I don’t have anywhere to go tonight.”