I believe Mom found it therapeutic to talk with me about her second hairpulling match with Fran. Knowing I could also keep a secret (I hadn’t told anyone about either catfight), she began confiding in me. She certainly couldn’t do so with her neighborhood or church gal pals for fear word would get out about her catfights. So, I became her confidant, at least to a degree (I know there was plenty she kept to herself).
About a month after Fran and her family moved away, Mom wrote her a note. She was still upset about the way Fran sneaked up behind her, rather than confronting her face-to-face. She was also shocked that Fran had fought dirty (grabbing her breasts) in order to get the upper hand. Prior to this incident, Mom had considered Fran a lady and not someone who would grab a woman’s most obvious and accessible sexual target. To Mom’s way of thinking—and Fran’s, too, since she started their hairpulling feud by grabbing Mom’s roller-bound lock of hair—hairpulling was the most ladylike way two women could physically settle their disagreements. However, the one thing about their second catfight which continued to needle Mom the most was Fran’s insistence on pulling more strands of hair out of her waves after she’d told Fran she quit. Although Mom didn’t let me read the note, she told me the gist of its contents. Apparently, she ended by implying—none to subtly—the only way Fran could win a catfight with her was by fighting dirty.
Two weeks after she sent the letter, Mom received a reply. I heard the mail carrier put mail in our box, so I went to get it. Boy was I excited to see an envelope addressed to Mom in Fran’s handwriting. I quickly took it to her. As Mom opened it and pulled the letter out, something fell to the floor. It was a couple dozen long strands of black hair. Mom stared at her tress on the floor for a few moments and then read the note. As she did, her face grew red with anger.
Dying with anticipation, I asked “What did Fran write?”
Mom thought for awhile, digesting the contents while considering how to interpret them for my ears.
“She says I’m prissy and a sore loser.”
“Is that all? What about the lock of your hair she put in the envelope?”
“She thought I might need it to cover-up any bald spots.”
“What else? Didn’t she write more than what you’re telling me?”
“Well, she did say if I ever wanted to have another hairpulling-only match with her she’d be happy to oblige. She wants to prove she can beat me, again, but in the same way I beat her the first time we went at it.”
I couldn’t believe my ears.
“So, are you going to accept?”
“Why do you think I wrote Fran in the first place?” Of course I’ll accept, but don’t get anxious. Fran lives a long distance away, so it could be years before we see one another, again.”
In the meantime, Mom’s hair inched its way down her back. So did Fran’s. They devised a clever way to monitor the growth of their rival’s hair without being too obvious about it—by exchanging Christmas cards containing the obligatory family photo. This way they could see how much each other’s crowning glory had grown during the past year. They always spent a lot of time fixing their lengthy locks prior to having the photo taken and they were particularly careful to arrange their hair so it cascaded down both sides of their chest for all to see—especially each other.
The Christmas family photo always prompted comments from Dad, like “Honey, can you believe how long Fran’s hair is? I hope you continue letting your hair grow—it’s just as pretty as Fran’s.”
You can imagine how well this went over with Mom—like a lead balloon with a hole in it! I have no doubt Fran’s husband, Bob, made similar comments about Mom’s hair when he saw our family photo, eliciting a similar reaction from Fran. Remarks like these from their husbands, together with the occasional, ongoing war-of-words through the mail, kept the flames of Fran and Mom’s feud very alive.
As her hair grew longer, Mom also began doing some particular exercises. She’d massage her scalp to stimulate the hair follicles to promote growth and strength. When her hair reached the middle of her back, she began a more unique regimen, which she only performed when Dad wasn’t around. She’d start by pulling her hair up in a ponytail on top of her head, which was held temporarily in place with a hair ribbon. Then she’d wrap the end of her ponytail around an adjustable bar she’d placed between a door jam. When her ponytail was secured in a knot around the bar, she’d remove the ribbon and slowly step down the treads of a step-stool until she was partially hanging by her hair. She kept doing this until she was able to hang completely by the hair without any support under her feet. During this time she was also using a pair of exercise hand grips. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what Mom was preparing for.
One evening, four years after Fran’s family moved away, Mom walked into the living room, looked at me and Dad, and said “Guess what?” We didn’t have a clue, so Dad said “Tell us.”
“Fran and Bob are in town this week and the Johnson’s are throwing a party for them—we’re invited. Oh, don’t worry, the party’s Friday night, so you two will still be able to leave early Saturday morning on your fishing trip.”
“Great, it’ll be good to see them again,” Dad said.
“Don’t you mean it’ll be good to see Fran, again?” was Mom’s pithy reply.
Dad blushed. I’m sure Mom’s remark had a double meaning—the obvious one that Dad would be particularly glad to see Fran and the not so obvious one that Mom would also be very glad to see her.
I had to hand it to Mom, she’d planned things perfectly. She must have known for weeks when Fran and Bob were going to be in town, which explained why she encouraged me and Dad to schedule a fishing trip for the up-coming weekend. Yep, I wasn’t going to be around to see the fur fly. Damn!
The Johnson’s were the family who, four years earlier, threw the Aldridge’s a going-away party. Many of the same friends, who were at that party, came to this one. Fran and Bob were already there when we arrived. I thought Dad was going to have a heart attack when he saw Fran’s beautifully curled, super-long blonde locks falling down her back, past her waist, to the middle of her bottom. Bob had a similar reaction when he saw Mom’s equally long and beautifully curled black tresses.
About 30 minutes after we arrived, the hostess walked to the center of the living room and asked for everyone’s attention. “At the Aldridge’s going-away party four years ago, many of you will recall we all wanted to know who had the longest hair, Fran or Lois. Well, at the time Lois did. However, seeing the great lengths they’ve both gone to (some people chuckled), we all want to know whose hair is longest, now.”
Repeating what she’d done previously, Mrs. Johnson, aided by another woman, placed a cloth tape measure at the hairline on top of the forehead, pulled it across the crown, and down the length of the hair, as her assistant stretched the hair out to its full length. She repeated this three times, apparently because she couldn’t believe the results. Finally, she announced their hair was the same length—36 inches!
Fran and Mom seemed incredulous at the results. I heard both women telling other guests there must be a mistake. Each one was certain her hair was the longest, in spite of the measurements.
Later on, I saw Fran and Mom walk up to each other for a brief conversation. By the time I got close enough to hear what they were saying, I’d already missed most of it. But I did hear Mom ask Fran if she’d be available to come by our home around 11:00 tomorrow morning for coffee and girl talk. Fran said that was a wonderful idea, since Bob was going to be occupied all day with business. Now, I knew where and when Mom and Fran’s final hairpulling match was going to happen and I wasn’t going to be there!
All the next morning, I wished I was back home watching Mom and Fran pull hair. When Dad and I finally returned home late on Sunday, it was hard for me to know how well Mom had done during the fight because she was wearing her hair up. I was anxious for me and Mom to be alone so she could tell me what happened, but it wasn’t until Monday, after school, when all was revealed.
Over the next several weeks, whenever the opportunity arose—and Mom was in the mood—I’d talk with her about the fight and ask questions. I wanted to get as complete a picture of their catfight as I could. As we talked, I took notes in a journal, so I wouldn’t forget. The following narrative of their real-life, hairpulling match is based on the records in my journal.
When Fran arrived at our home on Saturday morning, she and Mom said very little. Apparently, things were already arranged and agreed to ahead of time. Fran went to the guest bedroom, changed, and left her belongings there.
Mom was waiting for Fran in the living room. She’d already moved furniture aside to create a large open space in the center of the thick carpet.
Fran entered the living room wearing a light-blue, one piece, Catalina-style bathing suit. She was barefoot. Her beautiful, thick, full, 3-foot-long, blonde locks were down and freshly curled. She’d let her bangs grow out as she’d grown her hair longer and changed her center part to a right side-part. Wanting to look her best, she’d also applied make-up (or, perhaps, war-paint might be a more apt term).
Mom was on the opposite side of the living room. She, too, was barefoot and wearing a red, one-piece, Catalina-style bathing suit. Her gorgeous, thick, full, 3-foot-long, black locks were down and freshly curled. She’d grown her waves out as she’d let her hair grow and had changed from a center part to a left side-part. Not to be out-shined, Mom was also wearing make-up.
Fran spoke first. “I meant to ask you last night, is that one of those Halloween witches’ wigs you‘re wearing?
“It’s all natural, which is more than I can say for your hair color,” Mom quipped. “Are you sure you can beat me in a hairpulling-only match, without fighting dirty?”
“I know I can,” Fran replied confidently, “I’ve been in training”.
Concerned, Mom asked what she meant.
“I’ve been strengthening the roots by hanging by my hair. It doesn’t bother me as much to have my hair pulled, now, as it did before.”
On no! Mom couldn’t believe it. “Well, you weren’t the only one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did a similar exercise.” Mom didn’t tell Fran about exercising with the hand grips. Maybe, with a little luck, that was something Fran hadn’t thought to do.
“You bitch!” Fran replied, “You’re just saying that because you’re scared I’m more ready for this hairpulling match than you.”
“Well, let’s find out whose better prepared, shall we?”
“Yes, lets.”
They’d previously agreed this was going to be a hairpulling-only contest. They would simultaneously put their hands in the other’s hair. When they were satisfied with the hold on their opponent’s locks, they would nod ‘yes”. Once they’d both nodded, they would start pulling and they wouldn’t stop until one said “give”.
For four years they’d waited for this moment. Now that it was here, they were both nervous with expectation. Each one was resolved she was going to win, no matter how long it took.
Staring daggers at each other, they moved toward the center of the living room until they were within a comfortable arm’s reach of one another. Raising their hands until they were on opposite sides of their rival’s head, they slowly ran their fingers through their enemy’s luxuriant tresses, gathering two, thick handfuls. Satisfied with their grips, they nodded at almost the same time.
Pulling with all their might, they looked in each other’s eyes, hoping to see some sign of weakness. What they saw was determination mixed with loathing. Occasionally, one or the other mom would change hairpull positions, releasing loose strands of her enemy’s locks before returning for more. Otherwise, it was a standup, slow-moving-around-the-room, pull-as-hard-as-you-can-on-your-antagonist’s-mane type of fight. “Ohs”, “ows”, and “ughs” were the only sounds which broke the silence. Strands of blonde and brunette hair began to accumulate on the carpet as they walked each other by the hair about the living room, pulling all the while. Mom said it felt like this went on for an eternity.
After having made almost a complete circuit around the room, they came to a halt back in the middle of the carpet. Continuing to pull with everything they had, they pulled themselves to their knees. This was followed by more extreme hairpulling and more lost strands. It was now that Mom realized Fran was as determined to win as she was. Attempting to take her mind off the pain she was suffering, Mom tried to imagine the even greater pain she hoped she was inflicting on Fran’s scalp. At this point, there was almost a constant stream of painful-sounding noises coming from both moms.
Slowly, they pulled each other onto their sides, neither one letting go of the other’s lengthy locks. Just as in their first fight, they locked their legs together and continued their hairpulling contest unabated, rolling around on the carpet as though in slow-motion. Neither seemed concerned at this point about staying on top. They were totally absorbed in pulling hair and most of the time they couldn’t even see one another’s face through all the hair which enveloped them.
Eventually, rolling over and over entangled their 3-foot-long tresses, weaving a cocoon of blonde and brunette hair around Fran and Mom’s upper bodies, with only their arms and legs showing. Never letting go except to release strands torn from their rival’s head, more hair continued to accumulate on the carpet. “I’m not going to give. I’m not going to give,” Mom kept silently repeating to herself, as she clinched her teeth in agony while tearing out more of Fran’s blonde strands.
Then, it happened! Fran chose to break their agreement. The next time she rolled on top of Mom, she made her move. Letting go of a lock of Mom’s hair with her right hand, she clamped down on Mom’s left breast, squeezing with all her strength.
“Oooowwww! You filthy bitch!” yelled Mom. “You broke our agreement because you know you’re losing. Well, now I’m going to make you pay for it!”
Mom said she was soooooo mad, she actually saw red. Releasing her grips on Fran’s tresses, she grabbed both her breasts and began squeezing, as though she was exercising with the hand grips.
An incredible and long “Ooooooowwwwww” came from Fran’s mouth. Fran let go of Mom’s hair with her left hand and grabbed her right breast. Back on their sides, both moms were squeezing and pinching their enemy’s breasts with the same intensity they’d been pulling on each other’s 3-foot-long manes.
Mom tried to ignore the pain so she could focus on attacking Fran’s breasts. She was glad they both had very short nails. With each one sporting a pair of 36Cs, they didn’t have trouble finding their targets. When they tired of squeezing and pinching their adversary’s breasts, they moved on to nipple twisting.
After several minutes they separated by pushing and kicking apart. Rising to their feet while backing away from each other, they tossed their 3-foot-long, tangled-and-torn tresses behind them. They stood apart for awhile, nursing their breasts and contemplating their next move.
Their tempers at a fever pitch, they both let out a guttural “Aaaaarrrrgggghhhh” kind-of-sound, as they went for each other, arms forward and hands curled open. When they met they grabbed one another by two super-long locks on either side of their head and pulled down, at the same time bending forward at the waist. In their familiar hairpulling tug-of-war stance, they started backing up, putting as much tension on each other’s hair as they possibly could. With hair 3 feet long, they were able to put about 5 feet between them, while stretching their rival’s two tresses as tight as piano wires.
Mom began silently saying her familiar mantra to herself—“I’m not going to give. I’m not going to give.”
Her concentration was broken by a loud “OOOOOWWWW”, coming from both her and Fran. Quickly assessing the situation, Mom saw that Fran had lost much more hair than she. While Fran was massaging her head with both hands, Mom shook the blonde strands from her hands and grabbed Fran, throwing her to the carpet, face first.
As quick as a cat, Mom stood over her, straddling Fran’s head and making sure she planted her feet in the midst of the piles of 3-foot-long blonde hair lying on either side. Then she reached down with both hands, grabbed two super-long blonde locks, and jerked up with all her might. An awful “YYYYEEEEOOOWWW” came out of Fran’s mouth. Over and over, Mom jerked Fran’s head off the carpet by her tresses. Fran must have felt four, not two; locks of her hair were being pulled out by the roots. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she cried out “Stop! For God’s sake, stop! I give! I give!” Their catfight had lasted about 20 minutes.
Mom left the room and went upstairs to my parent’s bedroom to begin straightening her disheveled mane. Several minutes later, she heard Fran go to the guest bedroom and close the door. She was in there for about an hour before she came out. Mom had finished fixing her hair about ten minutes earlier and was sitting in a chair in the living room waiting for Fran to come to the front door. As she waited, Mom surveyed the carpet. There was much more blonde than black hair strewn across its surface. When Fran came to the door, she was wearing the dress she’d arrived in and had put her hair up in a braided bun at the back of her head. Mom had decided to keep her 3-foot-long locks down, so that Fran could see them in all their glory before she left. The last thing she said to Fran, as she went out the door, was “Don’t come back, unless you want to lose a third time!” Mom never saw or heard from Fran, again.
