Being a young man, adventurous and willing to try most anything, and as such always need a few extra riyals, the perfect solution hit me one hot day in 1964.
The shrimp guy was coming down the alley with his donkey pulled wagon and had fresh gulf shrimp the size of baby whales. Well, I though, Hmmmm, opportunity strikes. My brother Kevin, about 3, I guess, blonde hair and all was playing in the yard and after much heated debate and barter I had agreed to sell him to the Arab for the wagon of shrimp. The deal was that he had to wait until I sold the shrimp and then off they would go. Nothing so bad about this deal. I get out of babysitting, can go around to all the neighbors and sell shrimp, make lots of faloose and deny all knowledge of my brother's whereabouts. Plus, he had pissed me off royally earlier that day.
I had been on the telephone arranging a date for the tri-D that night, last minute expert here, and he had stuck a wind up toy train on my head and turned it on, wrapping my hair in the wheels and even after smacking him with the telephone I couldn't get the damn train to stop. He in return gets Dad's hammer and comes back around the corner, where I am trying to get the train loose, use normal language with the lady on the phone and pulling out great globs of hair, plotting his demise, and WHAM, I see stars and drop the phone, I look at my dumb brother and he has this hammer trying to break loose his toy train, which by now is fully engaged in my hair. WHAM, again with the damn hammer. I now am on the verge of murder so I get him, lock him in the closet and run for Dad's barber kit that he always gave us haircuts with.
Well, I managed to get the train out of my hair and see that I have plowed a nice neat path directly down the center of my head. Imagine if you will the expression I had looking in the mirror. AND I have a date for that night with an angel. After franicaly running up and down the hall screaming what all I'm going to do to my brother, I decide that I can take one of Mom's wigs, I mean she had several, who would know ? Yea, right. So I cut a big piece off the back of one of her wigs, wondered at the time why it was out in the bedroom and not in a bag in the closet, but ohh well.. Dad had been painting the patio and had told me that he was using and epoxy cement type of adhesive, so I thought, that'll work for glue. Off I dashed to get the epoxy, slap some on the hair, slap it on my head and as soon as I do I decide I can manage this and trim it all up to where it looked somewhat normal. Problem was, the damn wig was red and I hadn't noticed. I now have a red streak where shortly before there was no hair.. Damn, I'm getting panicky now and I dash into the kitchen and start throwing things everywhere. Well all I could find was Red Number 4 food coloring. So I applied it to my head..Making a match don't you see.
Match my butt, my whole head, except the wig is now dirt red and streaking my face and the wig part has turned bright orange. The only answer..well I had heard bleach would take out color. No one told me straight bleach was not what they meant so off I go. I soon learn the folly of this fiasco as I know have slightly mangy reddish blonde green egg hair and a patch in the middle that has gone white.
At this point I give up and hope that when Mom comes home She can straighten it out before the tri-D that night. Now to get rid of the main problem, that brother. I let him out into the yard and then comes the Arab..I could swear it was devine intervention, but Mom later called it something I had to look up.
So I go house to house and sell a ton of shrimp. I save about ten pounds and give Kevin to the Arab, with my blessings. The Arab and Kevin had a really good time with my hair, but I knew that milking camels for life would fix his wagon. Mom comes home and I sell her the shrimp I had left, making a tidy profit and although she almost blew a capillary over my hair, thought it could be fixed.
So I'm thinking all's well that ends well when the phone rings. Mom answers and to this day I have never heard a sailor use such language. Plus the look I got caused me to think it might be time to call Fr. Roman and ask for last rites.
Security at the main gate had my brother. Seems as if the Arab thought the whole thing was a terrific joke and he and the Security guard were in hysterics about the dumb Americans when the wrath of God fell upon them. Mom from above. She had to repay the Arab for all the shrimp, none of this I was aware of, blissfully sitting on the barber stool at home waiting for Mom to fix my hair.
She comes in with Kevin, and I thought a rather wicked look in her eye, but figured alls well that ends well. She fixed my hair, and to make a long story short I was the first Aramco kid with Damn near no hair at a Tri-D..Who says Moms don't have a sense of humor. BUT wait, I have saved the best for last. Mom and Dad were going over the the Aramco AEA big deal dinner and about half way thru the big ceremony, after Mom and Dad have been called up on the stage to receive their awards, some fool yells out, " Irene, what the hell did you do to your hair." Seems as if there was a major swatch missing from the back.
I, in the meantime was dancing and not a care in the world, no hair, but played like I was stylish, and not pulling it off well what with all the raucusously loud laughter..Suddenly there was a voice, sounded like the crack of doom to me, but others said they thought there was much promise of great times in the tone of voice, as my name was called out to please report to the front. YOUR MOTHER IS HERE !
Needless to say, I had to go to all of the neighbors and pay them for their shrimp, which they got to keep and I was dateless for ever. I had to trade off a Scuba lung for a new wig, had to babysit for years, in fact just got off that punishment last week. Yet the worse was to come.
Mom made me go in front of the whole AEA and tell the story and the laughter was heard for miles across the barren waste of the desert, where I wanted to go. I still hear occasionally about the famous wig and shrimp sale. Keven still watches me with a close eye and Mom still talks about I STILL owe her over the embarrassment.
Ohhh well, Merry Christmas
Mike Crocker (DH65)
Date: Tue, 11 Feb 1997 19:45:58 -0600