Let Down Your Hair

Shannon. Dying My Hair Blue! Digital image. Youtube. HeyThereI'mShannon, 23 Dec. 2012. Web. 7 Jan. 2016. <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lhWYgNTgTF0>.“

“Can you not?”

“What? I told you we’re going short.”

Another snip.

“Is it too late to go back?”

“Yes, now hush. Stop moving or I’ll mess it up.”

I turn back to the mirror. She’s already cut off about 5 inches. My hair wasn’t even that long to begin with.

“What about blue?”

“What about it?” I repeat, “I don’t know, whatever.”

“You can’t hate me. You wanted this, remember?”

I look at my hands and fidget with the ring on my pinkie. Change is good right? Blue could be good. I can be good.

Another clump falls to my feet.

Monday morning we waltz into school and a hundred heads swivel to us at once. She naturally strolls through the crowd, wearing the attention like a favorite sweater, and I do my best to follow suit. I’ve always been quite the follower. All eyes bore right into the back of my head.

“Nice hair, Papa Smurf!”

And so it begins.

“Shut your face before I do it for you!” she shrieks. Another perk of the relationship: no one can mess with me so long as she’s close. I feel like a toddler clutching my mother’s legs, not willing or ready to let go. She twists her lock with ease and retrieves a textbook.

“More like Violet Beauregard.”

“I said can it snot-wads!” she turns to me, “You look awesome, this is just high school bull.”

My mean guard dog, beware. With the slam of a locker door and the spin of her heel we’re off to class.

It’s been like this as long as I can remember. She does something drastic and then busts ass to maintain image. I can’t figure out who’s more insecure. Probably me now that the talk of the school is whether my carpet matches the drapes. This is bull. Just one more year.

“She’s here. Snap out of it, I told you no one will care in a week.” she squeezes my fingers, “Don’t hate me.”

I don’t hate her. I hate the situations I always end up in when I’m with her. But this is for the better. Blue hair me totally upstages brown hair me. Anyways, it’s not like anyone ever died from being the talk of the town or that I would care even if I was. So why are my hands so clammy? There’s a huge spot light aiming at the top of my head, that’s why. The bright color screams attention seeking.

By the time lunch rolls around my crusty hair is old news: the beauty of an overloaded gossip network and the collective short attention span of 16 year olds.

We take my bus home together.

She tosses her backpack on my bed and swipes on a fresh coat of lipgloss, from my dresser top. Sounds about right.

“You’re such a cool kid now, you know that right? Punk rocker to the max.”

“More like try hard.”

“Nah, just enough. Got anything to eat?”

As soon as I turn the landing on the stairs my mother shrieks. Crap.

“What?!"

“What?”

“Since when is your hair blue?”

“Since Sunday morning-“

“I did it for her.” Nonchalant cannot even begin to describe her aura.

“A little warning would have been nice is all,” my mom huffs. “Have fun girls.”

I grab a bag of chips and hustle back upstairs to the comfort of my room. She shuffles behind me. It’s strangely satisfying.

“You don’t always have to be so rude to your mom.”

“You don’t always have to suck up so hard.”

She grabs her bag to leave. Crap. Another petty argument, somehow initiated by me.

“Wait, I didn’t mean it-”

“You’ve really been pretty rotten to me lately and I need you to not,” the door slams and I hear stomps out to the yard. I should follow her. I should apologize and reconcile with my tail between my legs. But I wait a second too late. Out the window I see her pedalling away as fast as she can on my bike.

“MOM. I’M GOING OUT.”

I trudge my way five blocks to her house. On her driveway is the bike. After walking around to the back of her house, I chuck the obligatory pebbles at her scratched up window.

“Come back tomorrow Romeo, I’m having a bad hair day.”

“I know the feeling."

Asking forgiveness is the literal last thing I want to be doing right now. But sometimes she just needs to hear it, and sometimes just saying it is good for me too. Denial is nice until you don’t have any friends left.

The next day we walk to school together. When we reach the crosswalk across from school, a late parent misses the yield sign on account of my newly brightened hair. With a piercing screech and gasps from onlookers, she collapses to the cold asphalt. Since I always trail her, I had managed to lurch backwards and dodge the car hurtling towards us. Now I can’t remember why I was ever so difficult with her.