My Benevolent Brainwasher

Creative nonfiction
by Allen McGill

“You need a haircut," my mom said to me this morning. This wasn't an unusual statement, since she's always felt that I needed one—except my mom died years ago.

Now I don't believe in ghosts, mind you, nor in telepathic mind control, but I do believe in certain unseen influences: such as the moon's effect on tides, the force of gravity—and the lifelong impression a mother leaves on her child's mind. Whether present or departed, a mothers "pull" is probably the most profound of the three, judging from this individual's point of view.

I was brushing my teeth this morning, the first step toward consciousness for me, and my eyes had barely eased into focus, revealing what appeared to be a much older man on the other side of my bathroom mirror. Heavy-lidded, stubble-bearded and slumped, his hair seemingly charged with electricity—and some say that women look awful in the morning—he was obviously no more amused at my presence than I was at his. That's when Mom voiced her views on my bedraggled mane, and I had to admit she was right, as usual. I did need a haircut.

I've heard her words of advice frequently since she's been gone, and often been grateful for it. Many's the time "one drink for the road" I've declined when, in my mind's ear I've heard, "You'll be sorry," in a voice that was unmistakably (and unignorably) my mom's. I might not have listened to anyone else.

Later, no matter where I worked and had an apartment, "home" was always where my parents were, where Mom was constantly at me to do something or other: wear boots, don't drive fast or stay out late, meet a nice girl . . . nagging, it seemed to me then. Repetition was her way of teaching, but not my way of learning, and the one way I could rebel against the harping was to do the opposite, always to my regret.

It took time, but I eventually learned that the one thing worse than Mom's "nagging" was her sympathetic, wordless "I told you so" look after each rebellion.

Also, she had a compulsion toward honesty that was, at times, terribly frustrating. Fishing for a compliment, I'd ask her opinion of a new suit I'd bought, or how she liked a tie, or the new paint job on my car—only to have her unwavering honesty dash my enthusiasm when she disapproved.

"You want flattery?" she'd say. "Ask the salesman. When you want the truth, come to me. Your best friends might not tell you, but your mother will."

Try as I might, I could find no retort. For those she loved, only the truth was good enough. Diplomacy she reserved for others. As an adult living on my own, I found her telephone admonitions to "eat right" and "keep in with nice people" rather quaint and, with an admittedly patronizing grin, I'd assure her I wouldn't dream of doing anything else.

Mom wasn't always right, of course, thank goodness—she was a mother, not a saint—just right about most things.

Why, as youngsters, do we insist on learning things for ourselves, or take the advice of strangers, before accepting direction from our parents? Perhaps it's only when we're adults that we can fully comprehend their wisdom, and are fully able to acknowledge and accept it.

Which is something I didn't completely realize until I lost her. Lost her in the physical sense, that is. Her influence is with me still; more consciously heeded, perhaps, than if she were in this room, which I'm just about to leave—to get a haircut.

Maybe I'll get a "skinhead."

OUCH! I was only kidding, Mom.