The slow, sputtering sound of the garage door drew my attention away from the glowing television screen.
“Baby,” my father cried from the first floor, “I need your help.”

Responding to his distress, I flew down the stairs and towards the laundry room, where I spotted him through the screen door. He was masked in a thick coat of white paint, filling the wrinkled crevices of his face and drenching his crimson shirt in a sea of white powder.

“I need you to help me get rid of some of this paint,” he stated, his eyes conveying a desperate plead, one of which was unfamiliar to me.

“Won’t it come off in the shower?” I questioned.

“No, it’s oil-based. We’re going to have to use paint thinner.”

He closed the garage door to prevent further cold air from seeping in. Shivering, I ran to my room to grab a few needed utensils, then stepped out into the cold, holding a tattered rag in one hand, and an old plastic comb in the other. He poured a clear liquid into an old bucket, and a toxic, gasoline-like aroma filled the air. I dipped the rag into it, and began my endeavor to free my father from his stubborn coating. Slowly, I rubbed at his cheek, making a scratching sound as the cloth met the scruff of his beard. The swift movements of the rag worked quickly, and soon I began to trace the surface of his forehead. The texture was oddly similar to that of a pumpkin, the sort of which my father and I had spent countless Halloweens picking from various patches and clearing of their dirt encrusted surfaces.

“Is it working?” he asked from beneath scrunched eyes.

“A bit,” I replied.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked, “This might take a while.”

I nodded and he proceeded to an unfolded lawn chair. Slowly, my father’s face began to peek out from the debris. Working inches at a time, I uncovered freckles, age-spots, and moles like an archaeologist excavating the site of an ancient civilization. I discovered artifacts of my father’s life that made him wholly unique, pieces of him I would have not otherwise observed.

After a moment’s work, I had removed most of the paint from the region, leaving only a pattern of white goggles covering his eyes. People who work frequently in the conditions that left him like this, my father told me, coat their faces and eyes in thick globs of Vaseline for protection.

It was time to move onto my next task. I swirled the comb in the bucket of paint thinner.

Proceeding with apprehensive determination, I began to chip away at the largest glob of paint that encompassed my father’s hair, being as cautious as possible to avoid causing any pain.

“Have you ever thought about being a hairdresser?” he joked.

I laughed, instantly reminded of the days where I styled my father’s hair as creatively as my five-year-old-heart could muster. My tools at the time, however, were elastic bands and pink barrettes, rather than flammable liquids and white speckled combs.

I cringed as I snagged a strand of hair, but my father did not budge. He was strong in that way, always acting as the masculine anchor to a frail-hearted young girl.

“Is it bad?” he asked.

“You kind of look like a snowman,” I teased.

He chuckled under his breath.

Piece by piece, I began to spot the speckled brown and grey tone of my father’s hair, salt and pepper, as he so often called it. He was not old, but certainly too much so to be subjected to the working conditions he endured. Endless hours, seven day weeks, and strenuous manual labor had undeniably taken a toll on his mind and body. He was stricken with depression and immense pain, and I recognized this. Patiently, I accepted postponed driving lessons and absent bonding time. I hoped that one day the work would cease, he would find happiness.

“Are you getting it?”

“It’s almost done.”

I swooped the comb through his hair one last time, ensuring that every grain of paint had been removed.
I set my utensils down, and he rose from his chair.

“Thanks,” my father said, setting his hand on my shoulder, something he had done since I was a young child. He turned and headed towards the warmth of the house. And after a moment’s notice, I followed.