the re-gift
I must preface this with...well, a preface. This is a spoof on O Henry's beautiful Christmas story. Mine is far less beautiful and much more sarcastic. Do not be offended, dear reader. I'm actually a very nice person.
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George hurried through the twilight streets, wanting so to be home already. He thought of the fire his wife, Laurel, would have burning in the hearth. She'd have their meal prepared by now. He was later than he'd expected to be, but when he'd rushed right from work to the tiny shop on the corner, the shopkeeper had said the gift wasn't ready yet. He'd gotten the perfect material in just that morning, you see.
It was so soft! Much nicer than what he and George had discussed weeks ago, before George had the money to pay him. The dear old shopkeeper had not charged George a penny more than he'd quoted in November. He knew money was hard to come by, and had in him the heart of a saint and the spirit of the holidays. George had paid the man, and tucked the precious cargo under his hat to make sure it wouldn't blow away in the bitter winter wind. Surely, Christmas shouldn't bite one's fingers and toes so! But never mind the chill. He'd be home soon, and couldn't wait to see Laurel's face when he revealed his Christmas surprise.
Laurel stirred the stew thoughtfully. She wondered what was keeping George, as she fingered the scarf tied at her neck. George had given it to her last year, though he'd regretted it when he saw she liked to wear it draped over her head, obscuring her hair. He liked to see he r hair shining in the candlelight or swaying behind her as she walked. He often joked it was the same color his had been, before he'd pulled it all out over the shenanigans of his mischievous wife. She hoped, this year, the scarf would be the disguise she needed until after he'd opened his gift.
George and winter blew in the door at a quarter to seven. Laurel beamed at her husband, while she chastised him for letting supper get cold. George chuckled, knowing she'd never have let that happen. She was a good wife, and still as beautiful as the day they'd met, even after 25 years of marriage.
"Hiding your pretty head again, wife?" George asked with a chuckle.
"Oh nonsense, you silly old man. I've got to keep the dust bunnies from settling into it while I clean your house, haven't I?" Laurel threw back with a sparkle in her blue eyes.
George laughed. "Well, no matter. As long as you've got some dinner on, I'll be content to wait for your pretty tresses."
"Oh, no you don't," Laurel scolded when George eye d the dinner pot. "You'll come right over and sit by the fire with me. I've been waiting all day to give you your gift! You'll not have a bite 'til that's done!" She took his still cloaked arm and pulled him over to his chair by the fireplace. George obliged his wife's urging and let her set him down in his chair, smiling at her excitement. He watched as she scurried over to the plate rack by the stove and pulled a small and carefully wrapped gift from behind the gravy pitcher.
"It isn't much," she apologized, even while the light danced in her eyes. "I took in some sewing, but you know our neighbors are in much the same fix we are... Anyway, open it!"
George took the tiny package, and felt like the luckiest man in the world. Every year, they said they wouldn't exchange gifts - that the gift of their love was enough. Every year, they reneged on their promises. As Laurel gazed down at him from her seat on the arm of his chair, George carefully opened his present. Inside the scrap of wrapping paper was a beautiful gold chain. A chain for the watch he no longer had.
Laurel looked at George expectantly. "Well? Is it okay? Take out your watch, George. I want to be sure the chain will fasten onto it correctly."
George looked at his beautiful wife, love shining in his eyes. "Oh, my darling. Wouldn't you just know it? I left it at work! The chain is wonderful. It's more than I ever hoped for, especially this year."
"George, no! You can't have left it. You never let it out of your sight! Really, have you lost it?" Laurel worried aloud.
"Darling, no. I haven't lost it. I...well, you see...I sold the watch. I tried to get more hours at work, but it just didn't come to enough money. I couldn't let the holiday go by without--"
"Oh, George," Laurel interrupted. "You needn't have worried about a present for me. You know it's enough for me that we have each other."
"My beautiful bride," George smiled up at her. "It's not what you think. We do have each other, and we always will, but now you'll be able to love me even more, because...well, just look what I've bought!"
With that, George excitedly whipped off his hat, revealing a full head of hair. In a spot no hair had dared to grow for years, there rippled blonde tresses fit for a man twenty years his junior.
"Isn't it wonderful, darling?" George asked his red cheeked wife.
Not giving quite the answer he'd expected, his bride answered, "Well, sure, George. It's just the picture of irony. You got it from old Glen at the shop on 42nd and Grove, right?"
"Why, yes. But--how did you know?" George blustered.
In answer, Laurel untied her scarf. She pulled it from her head and let it glide to the floor at George's feet, revealing a cropped hairstyle worn not out of fashion, but out of love. "It seems, dear, that you won't have to envy me my hair any longer. You've always liked running your fingers through it. Well, now you can do it even when I'm not here, because you're wearing it!"
And that, my friends, is the true meaning of Christmas. For all the boys out there:
When you've given all you can,
be thankful that you're but a man
because, were you a chick instead,
you'd sell the hair right off yer head!--------------------------
The inspiration for the new take on this story was kind of funny. My mom had let my sister's boyfriend borrow my dad's karaoke machine, but dad didn't know about it. He came home and wanted to use it, but it was gone. He called me and asked if I knew where it was, and I said, "We sold it to buy you a chain for your pocket watch." He mixed up the story and said, "Oh, but I sold my pocket watch to buy hair."
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written works © April Palleria, 2002