I realize my readers usually expect to find humorous stories on here when they check out my blog, but just for this week, I’d like to print something serious. It’s a story I wrote for the Chicken Soup for the Soul books back in 1998, and it’s been reprinted many times since. But what made me think about it now, after so many years, is I recently received an email from the grandson of the “Santa” in my story, telling me how much his family appreciates what I wrote about him.
His email made me feel good…really good.
But what struck me the most about his message was how fate must have inspired him to write to me at this particular time in my life…because ironically, I once again am battling alopecia, just as I did in this story…
THE DEPARTMENT STORE SANTA
“Why are there so many different Santas?” I asked my mother, tightly clutching her hand as we walked along the icy downtown sidewalk in Manchester on the day after Thanksgiving. I was five years old.
“They’re all Santa’s helpers,” my mother answered. “The real Santa is at Leavitt’s department store. You remember visiting him last year, don’t you?”
I nodded, not doubting for a moment he was genuine. Most of the Santas everywhere else, especially the ones ringing bells on the street corners, had scraggly cotton beards, heavily rouged cheeks and drooping, padded bellies. They bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Santa in one of my favorite picture books, The Night Before Christmas. But the Santa at Leavitt’s department store – well, he looked as if he had just stepped right out of one of the pages.
“Can we go see Santa today?” I asked. “Please?”
“Next week,” my mother answered, glancing at her watch. “I promise.”
But only five days later, I found myself on a cold table in a doctor’s examining room.
Wide-eyed, I stared at the doctor as he spouted a lot of medical terms I didn’t understand…until he said, “She’ll probably lose all of her hair.”
“You’re mistaken,” my mother responded, shaking her head, “I don’t want to offend you, but I’m going to take her to a specialist for a second opinion.”
And she did. Unfortunately, the diagnosis was the same. I had a form of juvenile alopecia, a condition that would cause most or all of my hair to fall out.
Mine, much to my mother’s dismay, fell out quickly, not gradually. I can remember watching her choking back tears every time she found a clump of my long curls lying on the floor or scattered on my pillowcase…or when she brushed my hair and it came out by the handfuls. I also remember hating my reflection in the mirror and angrily refusing to believe my mother when she assured me my hair would grow back.
Understandably, I didn’t have much Christmas spirit that year. Although I felt fine physically, the sight of myself looking pale and bald made me want to stay in my room and hide under my bed. So when two days before Christmas, my father enthusiastically invited me on our annual father-daughter shopping spree to pick out gifts for my mother – an event I’d always looked forward to – I told him I didn’t want to go.
But Dad could be persuasive when he wanted to be. He convinced me that without my help and suggestions, he probably would end up buying my mother the most hideous Christmas gifts in the history of the world.
Solely for the sake of salvaging my mother’s Christmas, I agreed to go shopping with him.
Downtown, the throngs of shoppers, cheerful Christmas music and thousands of twinkling lights made me temporarily forget my problems. I actually was having a good time and enjoying myself…until Dad and I decided to stop for a cup of hot cocoa.
“Hi, Lou!” one of the customers greeted my father when we walked into the coffee shop. “Say, I didn’t know you had a little boy! I thought you only had a daughter!”
I burst into tears.
It actually wasn’t the guy’s fault. I mean, I was wearing a tan-colored jacket, slacks, boots and a brown and tan cap, all strictly for warmth. There was nothing pink or frilly on me.
My father quickly ushered me out of the coffee shop and we headed toward Leavitt’s department store.
“I have just the thing to cheer you up,” he said, forcing a smile. “A visit with Santa. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Sniffling, I nodded.
But even as I stood in line in Leavitt’s toy department, where Santa sat on a regal, red velvet throne trimmed in gold, my tears still wouldn’t stop. When my turn finally came, I shyly lowered my head and climbed onto Santa’s lap.
“And what’s your name?” Santa asked, smiling.
Still not looking up, I carefully pronounced my full name – first, middle and last – just to make certain he would be able to find my house on Christmas Eve.
“And what would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas?” he asked.
My tear-filled eyes finally met his as I slowly removed my cap and revealed my naked scalp.
“I want my hair back,” I told him. “I want it to be long and beautiful, all the way down to the floor, just like Rapunzel’s.”
Santa cast a questioning look at my father and waited for his nod before he answered me.
“It takes a long time for hair to grow, sweetheart,” Santa said. “And I’m very, very sorry, but even Santa can’t speed things up. You will have to be patient and not lose faith. Your hair will grow back in time; I promise you it will.”
At that moment, with all of my heart, I believed his promise.
And ten months later, when my hair finally did start to grow back, I was convinced it was due solely to Santa’s magic.
The years passed, and after I graduated from high school, I got a job as a switchboard operator at Leavitt’s department store. All of my co-workers were friendly and helpful, but one employee went out of his way to make me feel welcome. He was a retired professional boxer named “Pal” Reed, the store’s handyman and jack-of-all-trades.
Pal had a knack for sensing when an employee was feeling sad or upset, and he did everything he could to help. While I was learning how to operate the switchboard and trying to memorize all of the departments, employees’ names and their extension numbers, I felt so frustrated and overwhelmed at times, I announced I was going to quit. Pal bought me a box of chocolates to lift my spirits, then asked if there was anything he could do to help.
He was so easy to talk to, I felt as if I had known him for years. And because of him, I didn’t give up.
During my first Christmas season at Leavitt’s, I went to the stockroom one afternoon to get some gift boxes on my way back from my lunch break. There, standing in a corner with his back to me, was the store’s Santa, getting ready for his annual arrival in the store’s toy department.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I said, embarrassed I had interrupted him while he was dressing. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you.”
Santa quickly put on his beard before he turned to face me. At that moment I realized he was the same Santa I had told my Christmas wish to…fourteen years before.
But no beard or long white wig could conceal his true identity…
He was Pal Reed.
He smiled knowingly at me, then nodded and softly said, “I remembered you the minute I heard your name…and I’ve never been more thrilled to see such a beautiful head of hair.”
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PAL & HIS WIFE
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