She was a fastidious housekeeper. All her fancy lace and embroidery hankies were starched, ironed and kept in a clear Plexiglas box. Climbing her stairs to reach the bathroom was always paid off with a whiff of White Shoulders, her signature scent.

My mother’s mother—we called her Granny, but grownup relatives and friends called her Muzz.  I’ve never known how that name came about, since her name was Mabel. 

Muzz was a real beauty.  Her Czech mother contributed her hazel/green eyes and her porcelain complexion.  Her full-blooded Cherokee father donated his almond-shaped eyes, his aquiline nose, his high cheekbones, and his long, lustrous hair – except Muzz’s was light brown.

Since she was only 36 at the time of my birth, she was still a knockout when I grew old enough to understand what that meant.  Her silhouette was a voluptuous hourglass, and she worked constantly to maintain it.  She was so figure-conscious, she put me on a diet when I was still in high school.  I don’t think she completely understood genetics and its role in determining body type.  She thought all her female progeny would have a slim waistline, as she did. I had a thicker, boyish waist, much like my father’s.

Everything Muzz did was perfect in my eyes.  She always seemed freshly bathed.  Her hair would hang to her waist in one long braid when at home.  For work she parted it down the middle, made two braids and pinned them to the top of her head with a dozen hairpins to form a tiara-like crown.

She was a sun worshipper.  Her native blood allowed the sun to create a golden burnish on her face and arms.  She wore house dresses at home – jeans were for working men then – so it was not unusual to round the house to the backyard and find her in a metal porch chair, arms bared and skirt primly hiked to just above the knees, her face upturned to accept the master star’s warm kiss.

Whenever I entered the only bathroom in my grandparents’ two story home, I loved to open the closet door to inspect the things Muzz used to turn herself out every morning.  She had a lovely comb and brush set with sterling silver adornments.  Since she seemed always in a hurry, one of the things she did only periodically was remove the hair lost in the grooming process from her brush.  As the years went on, I was alarmed to notice how much more hair was left in the brush and how many of those strands were as silver as the brush’s handle.

My grandmother Muzz was very generous in sharing several of her genetic traits with me.  Only she and I had the “problem” of large, weighty breasts that caused indentations in our shoulders from the straps of the bras we needed to control them.  All the other women in the family, my sister included, were far less well-endowed.

There were two things I wish she had kept to herself.  It turns out the bunions that stretched her shoes into misshapen versions of their original styles are hereditary.  She thought it was from wearing shoes that were too small or too high.  Nature knew better and shared them with my mother, my sister and me.

The second inheritance has only recently appeared in spite of my fervent prayers to the contrary.  My hair, which is about 75% silver to gray, has thinned on top dramatically.  Each time I pass a comb or a brush through any portion of my shoulder-length bob I must carefully remove several strands my scalp has helplessly released. 

I should have known.  Thinning hair did not skip a generation, so my mother’s 87-year-old head of hair is sparse, at best.  Both she and Muzz wore wigs in their later years, whenever they left the house. 

Despite the current popularity of hair extensions, clip-on pieces and full wigs, it is hard to find them to match my own blend of colors.  I am afraid hair color will accelerate the hair loss.  Besides, I like my hair the way it is.

I know it is common for post-menopausal women’s hair to thin, but it is troubling for me.  Each strand that leaves my head and nestles itself in my brush is a cause for grieving. 

Frailty, thy name is woman. – Shakespeare’s Hamlet