*What Have I Done?*

At sixteen, I’m a pro at resisting the flow. Every other girl in my school boasts almost butt-length, straightened hair. As they slink through the halls, I inhale the scent of their tresses—crispy, burned, sort of like a campfire but not really. Campfires smell good.

            For the longest time, I embraced my curls. My mom made sure I never ran out of Herbal Essence Tousle Me Softly shampoo and conditioner. Bad hair day? No prob. I’d gather my bra strap-length jumble into a messy, hair-banded bun, tweak out strategic tendrils to frame my face and accent my Kraft Caramel eyes.

            I remember the time some preppy girl got nauseous in biology lab. We had to open windows to let the Formaldehyde fumes escape. Icy, Appalachian air rushed the room. To warm my neck and shoulders, I liberated my hair.

            “What is that smell?

            “Is it flowers?”

            “Nah, I think it’s apples.”

            I surveyed the guys around me—hotties, creepers, athletes. They all had their noses in the air. The lot of them closed in on me, sniffing. A blonde wrestler boy pointed at me.

            “It’s her,” he said. He hovered his face near my curls and sucked in their fragrance. “It’s her hair. Holy crap!  It smells amazing!”

            I shoved him, pretended offense, but really? That’s my favorite high school moment to date.

~~~

“What have I done?” 

            On my daybed my mother cringed, avoided my eyes, steepled her fingers.
            “It’s darling, sweetheart. Really, it is.”

            She reached out to stroke a random long piece. It looked like an accident, a hairdresser’s lack of expertise. I dragged my hands over the choppy darkness. Moaned.

            “Did you see this coming? Did you?”

            Mom stood and fluffed my pillows. She glanced in the mirror above my dresser, pinky-fingered lipstick out of the corners of her mouth.

            “Tami and I both told you there was no telling what your hair would do short. She said you’d have to blow dry, straighten, and use product to make your hair like that picture.”

            I hurled my comb at the mirror. “When? When did she say that?”

            Mom started to count on her fingers. I crumpled to the floor.

            “What am I going to do? Tomorrow’s school. They’ll call me skate rat and boy. If I wear my leather jacket, they’ll say I'm a dyke on a bike. Dyke!  I hate that word.”

            Mom joined me on the rug, tossed my Converse high tops toward the closet. On either side of me her legs were parentheses of love, no, protection. Well, both.

            “Oh, sweet pea,” she said, “you’re gorgeous. No one would ever think you’re a boy.”

            She tugged at a cluster of wild, stick out hairs, wet her fingers and tried to smooth the strands. Epic failed. I collapsed against her, my hands fists between us.

            “I lied, Mama,” I whispered against her neck. She smelled familiar—fruity, flowery. “I told myself I didn’t care what anyone thought, but that’s not true.”

            Her breath warmed my left ear, made it moist.

            “I want to be beautiful,” I said, “more than anything. I said I wanted to be different but I thought I’d look classy, elegant, like Audrey Hepburn.”

            Mom’s breathing stuttered. Is she crying too? She nudged my face toward the mirror beside my bed, pointed to us.

            “Baby, consider who you’re talking to. I’m addicted to my eyelash curler. I won’t go to the grocery store without makeup on. For crying out loud, I’m a Sephora Very Important Buyer. I know. I know what it’s like to want to be pretty, sweetie. Me of all people? I know.”

            I laid my cheek against hers and our tears swam together. I played with her rings, made them all face up.

            “I kept thinking, even if I’m ugly, some little bald girl can be beautiful with a wig made from my hair. But now? That’s not enough.” I twisted to look Mom in the eye. “Does that make me a bad person?”

            She clasped her hands under my ribs and rocked me, shushed and there-thered me.

            “I never thought I’d be ugly, Mama, never.” My never sounded as if I’d inhaled helium.

            I sagged forward and poked my fingers into my hair. I felt stinging as my face started to implode. Mom reached around me to cup my cheek.

            “But you’re not, sweetheart. There’s no—”  

            The girl in the mirror snorted snot. “I know, I mean— My face is still pretty but you don’t know high-schoolers, Mama. They’re mean. So, so mean. Flesh caught in zippers mean.”

            Mom rested her chin on my shoulder. “I’ll pray for you tomorrow, I promise. I won’t stop, not for a second.”

            I nodded and smiled, tried to anyway. “I know you will. Thanks.”

            I heaved myself up, trudged over to my dresser and plucked an aqua eyeliner out of the mug I made in eighth-grade art class. I stepped in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door and wrote in cursive on the glass: “I am beautiful.” My breath fogged the mirror as I underlined the sentence, over and over.

What Have I Done?

I’m an expert at going against the flow.  I will not be one of them.  Every other girl at my high school has long, straightened hair.  When they walk by, you can smell the crispy, burnt ends.  Sort of like a campfire.  Not really.  Campfires smell good.

I embraced my curls.  My mom bought me Herbal Essence Tousle Me Softly shampoo and conditioner by the gallon.  Bad hair day?  No prob.  I’d sweep my bra strap-length jumble into a messy, hair-banded bun.  Pull out strategic tendrils to frame my face, accent my Kraft Caramel eyes.

Last semester in biology lab, some girl felt sick.  We had to open windows to let the Formaldehyde fumes escape.  Icy, Appalachian air rushed the room.  I liberated my hair, to warm my neck and shoulders.

“What is that smell?

“Is it flowers?”

“Naw.  I think it’s apples.”

I surveyed the guys around me—hotties, creepers, athletes.  They all had their noses in the air.  They closed in, sniffing.  A blonde wrestler boy pointed at me.

“It’s her,” he said.  He stuck his face in my curls and inhaled.  “It’s her hair.  Holy crap!  It smells amazing!”

           
I shoved him, pretended offense.  But really?  That’s my favorite high school moment to date.

~~~

“What have I done?” I practically shouted into my mother’s anxious face.

On my daybed, she clasped her hands, her pointer fingers steeples. 

“It’s darling, sweetheart.  Really it is.”

She reached out to stroke a long, random piece.  It looked like an accident, a hairdresser’s lack of expertise.  I dragged my hands over the choppy darkness.

           
“Did you see this coming?  Did you?”

           
Mom stood and fluffed my pillows.  She glanced in the mirror over my dresser.  Used her pinkies to get lipstick out of the corners of her mouth.

           
“Tami and I both told you there was no telling what your hair would do short.  She said you’d have to blow dry, straighten, and use product to make your hair look like that picture.”

           
I threw my comb at the mirror.  “When?  When did she say that?”

           
Mom started to count on her fingers.  I crumpled to the floor.

           
“What am I going to do?  Tomorrow’s school. They’ll call me skate rat and boy.  If I wear my leather jacket, they’ll call me dyke on a bike.  Dyke!  I hate that word.”

           
Mom joined me on the rug.  Tossed my Converse high tops toward the closet.  She surrounded me with her legs, parentheses of love.  No, protection. Well, both.

           
“Oh, sweet pea,” she said.  “You’re gorgeous.  No one would ever think you’re a boy.”

           
She tweaked some wild, stick out hairs.  Tried to smooth them.  Epic failed.  I fell against her, my hands fists between us. 

           
“I lied, Mama,” I whispered against her neck.  She smelled familiar.  Fruity.  Flowery.  “I told myself I didn’t care what anyone thought, but that’s not true.”

           
Her breath warmed my ears.  Made them moist. 

           
“I want to be beautiful,” I said.  “More than anything.  I told everyone I wanted to be different, but I thought I’d look classy, elegant.  Like Audrey Hepburn.”

           
Mom’s breathing stuttered.  Is she crying too?  She turned my face toward the mirror beside my bed, pointed at us. 

           
“Baby, look who you’re talking to.  I’m addicted to my eyelash curler.  I won’t go to the grocery store without makeup on.  For crying out loud, I’m a Sephora Very Important Buyer.  I know.  I know what it’s like to want to be pretty, sweetie.  Me of all people?  I know.”

           
I laid my cheek against hers and our tears swam together.  I played with her rings.  Made them all face up.

           
“I kept thinking, even if I’m ugly, some little bald girl can be beautiful with a wig made from my hair.  But now?  That’s not enough.”  I turned to look Mom in the eye.  “Does that make me a bad person?”

           
She clasped her hands around my ribs and rocked me.  Shushed and there-thered me.

           
“I never thought I’d be ugly, Mama.  Never.”  My voice sounded as if I’d inhaled helium. 

           
A heaving suck of air escaped my mouth.  I felt my face start to implode.  She cupped my cheek and gazed at our reflection. 

           
“But you’re not, sweetheart.  There’s no—“     

           
I snorted snot.  “I know.  I mean--   My face is still pretty.  But you don’t know high schoolers.  They’re mean, Mama.  So, so mean.”  Flesh caught in zippers mean.

           

Mom rested her chin on my shoulder.  “I’ll pray for you tomorrow.  I promise.  I won’t stop.  Not for a second.”

           
I nodded and smiled.  Tried to anyway.  “I know you will.  Thanks.”

           
I stood.  Walked to my dresser.  Got a purple eyeliner out of the mug I made in eighth-grade art class.  I stepped in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door.  Wrote in cursive on the glass.  “I am beautiful.”  I made a kissy face, then I underlined the sentence.  Over and over.

Pretty Old

                                     (A pretty old picture of me)

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

I put my finger on the page and looked up. A freckly, buzz-cut boy stood in front of me.  He ground his gloved palms together.  He's 11, maybe 12.

“Yes?”

“I just got in trouble for being mean to my little sister.”

I clicked my tongue.  “That’s not good.”

“My mom told me to do a random act of kindness to make up for it.”

“And I’m the recipient?  Not your sister?”

He nodded.  Looked over his shoulder.

I dogeared my page and closed my book.  Cradled my mocha mug.   Tried not to grin.

“Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

I winked at his mom a few tables away.  She held up crossed fingers.

The boy cleared his throat.  “You’re pretty old.”

I put my hand on my chest and coughed.  The mom sagged.  I'm pretty sure I heard her moan. 

“I’m so sorry,” she mouthed.

I winced as he pulled out the chair next to mine.  He sat.  Took his gloves off and rubbed his hands on his jeaned thighs.

“That didn’t come out right, did it?”

I shrugged.  Puffed air at my bangs.  “I’ve been called worse.”

He leaned toward me.  “No, ma’am,” he said.  “You don’t understand.”

I watched his eyes.  They started at the top of my head.  Slid down past my shoulders.

“Your hair’s so shiny.  You could do a shampoo commercial.  And your eyes.  Are they blue or green?  Your fingernails’re almost black.  That’s cool.”

I felt a small, wry smile begin to bloom on my face.

“I didn’t mean you’re old, ma’am.  I mean, you are.  Older than my mom anyway.  But you’re pretty and old.  Pretty old.  Get it?”

I covered his hands with mine.  “I got it, sweet boy,” I said.  “It’s taken me half a lifetime to get it.  But I got it.  Finally.”

“What the heck do you need a bra for?” my middle oldest brother said.  Hooted really.

I whimpered and hightailed it from the dinner table to my petal pink bedroom. 

“He’s right,” I told the only stuffed animal I ever loved.  It wasn’t even an animal.  Jot was a giant smiley face with a tee tiny body. 

“I’m too flat to need a bra and too chubby to need a belt.”

Mom came in and sat on the end of my bed.  “Let’s go to Sears.  After I do the dishes.”

I didn’t take my face off Jot’s teeny neck.  “Can I get a stretchy bra and panty set?  Light purple?  Like Jot?”

Mom touched my back so lightly I barely knew her hand was there.  “Sure, honey.  Anything you want.”

I sat in the audience and watched my best friend get crowned third place in the Miss Flame beauty contest.  Next to me, her mom and dad clapped so hard I wanted to hold my ears.  I applauded too.  ‘Cause it was the nice thing to do.  I should want her to win, right?  But she’s everything I’m not. 

I squashed the thought down.  That’s mean.  It bobbed right back up like the candy bar in the swimming pool in “Caddyshack.” 

She looks like a cross between Cher and Brooke Shields.  Me?  Cindy Brady plus Dorothy Hamill hair equal me.

Last year’s Miss Flame handed my gal pal a daisy bouquet.  Nestled a twinkly tiara into her almost-black updo.  Her legs come up to my armpits and she’s a C cup.  I sighed.  I’m an A. 

My friend’s mom stood and took a picture of the first, second, and third place Miss Flames.  I blinked a buncha times to make sure I wasn’t blind.  

The mom turned to me.  “You want a picture with her?”

I smiled, a grimace really.  “Sure.”

So everyone can look at the photo album and call her gorgeous and me cute.  Cute is a four letter word.

“I want to try something,” my hairdo girl said.  “Don’t peek.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and waited while she fiddled behind me.  What’s she up to?  A few minutes later, she twirled the chair around to face the mirror.  I tilted my head.  Who’s that?

“Do you like it?”  Tami said.

My eyes looked a little buggy in the reflection.  I stuck my hands out from under the fuschia cape and reached up to touch my hair.  It felt so soft.  And sleek.  Barely there.

 “I’ve never had straight hair,” I said.  “I look different.  Pretty.”

“Pretty?”  Tami said.  “You’re beautiful.”

I felt a ball of air inside me.  Behind my breastbone.  Have I held my breath all my life?  Just waiting?  For someone to call me beautiful?

“You look 15 years younger,” the receptionist said.  “Your kids are gonna think you’re the babysitter.”

“Bangs are the new Botox, you know,” the nail tech said.

Tami took the cape off me and patted my neck with a huge powder puff.  I stepped toward the mirrored wall.  My breath made a silver circle.  I slicked my lips with petal pink lipgloss.  Made a kissy face.

“You should enter that Mrs. America beauty contest,” the shampoo girl said.  “I bet you’d win.”

I put my fingers under my eyes.  To hide the crow’s feet. 

           

“But I’m old,” I said, even though I didn’t feel it.  “Getting there anyway.”

Tami snorted.  “You’re not old,” she said.  “You’re beautiful.  Really.”

I turned to face her.  “Will you say that again please?  A little louder?”  So I believe it.