by Chad Norton
Momma always said I had beauty queen in my genes. And she should know.
The den in our house was covered with proof of it, floor to ceiling, along two and a three quarter walls. Ribbons, sashes, certificates, plaques, trophies and so many photos your eyes would go just about crazy trying to look close at just one. Momma won so many pageants and contests growing up that daddy always joked he knew he’d have to buy her the biggest house he could find.
“I was in love with the prettiest girl in Texas,” he said. “And you don’t marry royalty like that without giving her plenty of room for her crowns.”
Momma’s tiaras were enough to take your breath away. The way they sparkled and twinkled, so proud and perfect on the softly lit shelves of blue velvet in their glass case… they were dazzling, almost unreal. It was hard to imagine someone being so pretty that complete strangers would honor her with something so beautiful. But my momma had so many titles – Miss. El Paso, National Rodeo Queen, Yellow Rose Queen, Miss. Southwest, Miss. Texas and first runner up to Miss. America herself – that an awful lot of judges had done it easy as pie.
Momma said she knew I was a winner the minute she saw the faces of the doctor and nurses in the delivery room, all smiling and beaming with joy. I was the most beautiful baby they’d ever seen, blues eyes with rare curls of blonde hair. The doctor asked for a picture of me so he could have it framed for his office. And shift after shift, the nurses made extra rounds by the nursery to have another peek at the precious new arrival. Now, whether that all really happened, I wouldn’t know. I was just hours old. But that’s the story I heard for almost 15 years. Momma said I won my first pageant the day I was born.
Not too much later though, I won for real. At six months old, the people at Dillard’s department store in Houston handed me a sterling silver rattle with a tiny white ribbon and proclaimed me “Baby D.” They put me on the cover of my first catalog and used my three-toothed little smile and blonde curls on posters for their infant lines. I won all kinds of baby competitions after that and you’d be surprised how many times my bare bottom showed up in ads. By five years old, I’d already done a bunch of TV commercials, one for baby wipes, one for dog food, one for “no more tears” shampoo and a couple for McDonald’s – which were my favorites. I loved the french fries.
Momma told me I was so pretty with my golden, shiny hair, I could sell ice cubes to Eskimos.
She took great pride in her hair and in mine. She said it was one of my best features, a gift from God. A gift she wanted to be sure was knot, frizzies and split-ends free. So momma bought me all the best products from salons in Paris and New York. And every morning, she sat down behind me at my dressing table and pulled the brush through my hair one hundred times on each side, parting it front to back, down the center of my head.
“Never underestimate the power of beauty, Pamela Anne,” she advised between strokes. “Women still have to battle for their place in this world and it’s beauty that holds our weapons. In our eyes and in our smiles, in our legs and in our hips. Every little detail should attract and conquer, bees to honey. And your hair is especially powerful. You see how the people stop and stare. Why, with just one toss of your gorgeous mane, judges and common folk alike fall like petals at your feet. With hair like yours, there’s no telling what you’ll be able to achieve. No telling at all. Now sit up straight. Posture wins pageants.”
People certainly did seem to take notice. Whether I was walking down the hall at Kennedy Prep, strutting down a spring or fall runway or just taking a seat at the beauty parlor to get my nails done, heads would turn and boys and girls, men and ladies alike would talk in soft voices. Some would even point, which momma said was rude but forgivable since great beauty wreaks havoc on manners. Other times, people were incredibly polite, men especially. The old men who held court outside the pro shop at the country club tipped their hats like clockwork, saying things such as, “Pamela Anne, you get any prettier and my poor old heart will surely burst” or “Lord, what a vision. If I go blind tomorrow, I’d still be the happiest man on earth.” They were sweet.
I was terribly popular at school, too. Although I only involved myself socially with the appropriate students, from the appropriate groups and the appropriate families. That usually meant kids from Highland Park, a few cheerleaders, and captains of the sports teams. But everyone knew who I was. I was Little Miss. Texas at nine years old – you can’t hide from that kind of celebrity.
My best friends were Sarah Grace Richardson and Fatima Khalili. The Richardsons raised thoroughbreds for clients all over the world, one had taken the Triple Crown, and Fatima’s daddy was a big oil man, descended from a royal Persian family.
As a threesome, we got lots of attention, but the gazes most often lingered on me. Although Sarah Grace was pretty enough, she had too many freckles. And Fatima, as exotic as she was, also had a nose that was too big for her face. Her family didn’t believe in plastic surgery. My momma wouldn’t have given it a second thought.
I think the other kids at school envied us given our looks, popularity and all. But I tried to be friendly, even to the geekier kids. If they said “hello” to me, I’d give them a little smile, just enough to be polite without starting a conversation. Momma said I had nothing in common with those kids and she was probably right. Truth be told, I was glad I didn’t have to think about what to say to them. It seemed easier, better that way.
Some of the girls were a different story though, even the upper classmen. The envy they had always showed up as flat out jealously. And spite. They didn’t like the fact that the varsity boys constantly offered to carry my books and liked the smell of my hair. Or that Charles Whitestone, the student body president, started a petition to put my freshman name on the ballot alongside juniors and seniors for homecoming queen. I was flattered of course, but secretly, the only reason I would accept such an honor at fourteen was to see the look on Caroline McTaggert’s face as the crown was placed on my head. She wasn’t pretty enough to be queen anyway. Everybody knew it.
Halfway through my freshman year at Kennedy, momma and I began to prepare for the Miss. Teen USA pageant with a fitting at Mrs. Carlyle’s. Mrs. Carlyle had designed gowns for at least a dozen Miss. Americas, a number of Miss. USAs and a Miss. Universe or two as well. She was easily in her seventies, white-haired with shaky hands, but had been making my dresses since I was six and never once stuck me with a pin. She was the best in the business. And people said she could spot a winner using her measuring tape as a crystal ball.
“Pammy! Pammy!” Mrs. Carlyle cheered as I entered her drawing room with momma. “Let’s have a look at you.”
(Normally, momma detested anyone calling me “Pammy,” but Mrs. Carlyle was such a legend in the world of beauty pageantry that momma almost looked like she preferred it.)
After planting a kiss on my right and left cheek and giving momma a wink, Mrs. Carlyle squeezed my hands and raised my arms from my sides to critique my blossoming body. “Very nice. Such a lovely figure,” she cooed before adding with a snicker, “I think this dress will require more room up top, hmm?!”
“Hello Mrs. Carlyle,” I said. “So nice to see you again.”
“Pretty and well-mannered, too,” Mrs. Carlyle said, smiling into my eyes.
And then, for a split second, something in her eyes changed. Her pupils widened like they were adjusting to pure blackness, she looked sad or maybe confused. I couldn’t tell exactly. But before I had time to give it any real thought, it was over. Her eyes changed back and everything seemed right with the world. Mrs. Carlyle smiled broadly again, held my face in her hands, looked toward momma and then back to me.
“What are we thinking this time, ladies? Silk? Sequins? Lamé?” And then she drew my hair behind my ear and whispered, “Let’s make it something extra special.”
“I’ll get my sketch pad and samples,” she said as she turned to leave the room. “Make yourselves comfortable. I won’t be a moment.”
Momma and I sat down on the over-stuffed, antique couches as Mrs. Carlyle disappeared behind a heavy, wooden door. Momma started going on about the “horrible” colors chosen to be the trend next season and checked her make up with her compact. I lifted a stray golden hair from my lap and looked up at pageant winners from the last 40 years hanging in gold frames on the walls around me, but all I could see were Mrs. Carlyle’s big, black eyes.
A month later, my talent routine for Miss. Teen USA was coming together as nicely as the deep blue silk, off the shoulder, ankle length gown with rhinestone detailing that Mrs. Carlyle was preparing. I’d been rehearsing with my voice coach, Mr. Tulles, on a Mariah Carey song from her “Butterfly” album. Mr. Tulles was famous for his work with performers at the top of the rock and country charts. And daddy, a big time country fan, said anyone good enough for Trisha Yearwood was probably just the guy for Pamela Anne Taft, the next Miss. Teen USA.
Mr. Tulles lived with his wife on a beautiful ranch on the far side of Fort Worth, a good hour drive from our home in Dallas. It was daddy’s job to take me to my Saturday morning lesson, and I think he really enjoyed it. He made such a fuss about it, like he was driving a superstar to a stadium show, bowing and saying “madam” as he opened and closed my car door. He took along his latest Field & Stream, although I never knew him to hunt or fish, and grabbed a grande latte from the Starbucks near the freeway. Then, while Mr. Tulles and I struggled with Mariah’s impossibly high notes, daddy sat in his car, flipped through his magazine, sipped his coffee and sang along with the radio. Yes, it was country and daddy was so off-key and loud that I was amazed that Mr. Tulles didn’t rush out into the driveway to perform emergency singing instruction.
One particular Saturday, just four days before my 15th birthday, I was up early to make sure I’d be ready for daddy by the time he came tapping on my door with his rolled magazine. I sat at my dressing table half asleep and, like so many mornings before, started to brush out my hair like momma had taught me. One hundred times on each side, no skimping. And then it happened, my life changed forever.
Along about stroke 45 on the first side, my left, the brush just seemed to skim through my hair. It wasn’t actually brushing anything. And when I looked at it, I saw that it couldn’t possibly brush anything because between each and every bristle it was overflowing with hair. My hair! The wavy, golden, beautiful hair that had helped me win commercials, contests and attention was no longer attached to my head – it was everywhere it shouldn’t be. My fallen hair was draped over my knees and arms. It covered my feet, the floor around my chair and the top of my dressing table. I was drowning in it.
Everywhere I looked I saw loss. Here was a pageant. There was a crown. Each hair started to change into something else. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of dreams dying all around me. I saw the homecoming queen float without me on it, I saw all kinds of handsome boyfriends I’d never have, I saw smiles turn to shock, looks turn to stares. Winning bouquets of roses turned brown. Magazine covers blew away. White picket fences were ripped out and babies were sent back to heaven. And then I saw Miss. Teen USA. It tumbled over my forehead and slid down my nose before it got stuck in tears and couldn’t go any farther.
That’s when I did something that had never terrified me before but that at that moment seemed like the scariest thing I’d ever done in my life, I looked in the mirror.
Momma rushed into the room when she heard my screams, her hair still pinned under netting from her sleep the night before. Three feet inside the doorway she froze, her face white, her mouth open. Then she screamed almost as loudly as me.
“Baby, baby, what happened? What have you done?”
“Momma, my hair momma…” was all I could get out between sobs.
Then daddy ran into the room. As his magazine dropped to the carpet, I watched his big, strong eyes swell up with tears.
“The hospital,” he mumbled almost automatically. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”
Daddy scooped me up in his arms, dusted the hair off my face and kissed my wet cheek, “Come on darlin’.
In the car, momma wrapped a towel around my head and as I stared up into her panicked, determined face, I saw what I never thought I’d see. I didn’t think it possible. Momma wasn’t wearing any makeup. My momma, former Miss. Texas and winner of who knows how many pageants and titles, had left the house without a trace of powder, eye liner, blush, mascara, pencil or lipstick. She looked unnatural.