Car shopping headaches—literally

Taking Mom car shopping is simply asking for it. She loves the old Volvo, and that's that. Take me car shopping, however, and you've got a partner for life.

So last week Dad and I hit the Wellesley VW dealer, with Mom slinking along. All of our hopes were up, sort of:

• Dad's, because he liked the mileage of the diesel Jetta Sportwagen—and the sticker price.
• Mom's, because she read that the wagon would appeal to the die-hard traditionalist. That's her, all right.
• Mine, because I heard it was a great car for large dogs. I already had hopped into my friend Freckles' wagon one day, and found it charming.
• My sister's, had she been there, because the car comes in a couple of good colors.

Kind salesperson finds a car for me to test drive—from the rear, of course. I hop in the cargo area just fine. Then Dad shuts the lid. I try to turn around, and, because the wayback clearance for a tall guy like me is pretty wimpy—BUMP—my head hits the window. I nearly was concussed.

Ye Olde Wagon outside our summer rental in Maine.
Note the wayback headroom. And the waterview.

So that was that. And even Dad, who keeps complaining that Mom is like Goldilocks, had to agree that the car was too small.