quiet defiance
potato salad, buy-one-get-one bread, a case of alcohol, my mother's favorite chips, and blueberry loaf. each item is neatly arranged on the conveyor belt, caboosed with a red plastic rod so the folks behind me can begin the same process.
i told the woman pushing her cart forward that i liked her twin buns, aligned with her temples and perfectly donut-shaped.
"you can do it too," was her bright return. she wore an InsideOut shirt. had she seen the second one?
"she doesn't like it that much," inputted the man loading the belt. i assume it was her husband.
did he... not like his wife's hairstyle? or had i hesitated in my response? my thrifted NASCAR baseball cap kept my thin ponytail raised in the gap of the velcro strap at the back. i grasped at it with a sheepish wave of my hand. "oh, no -- i just don't have enough hair for that style."
what a silly thing to say to a lady at least twice, maybe even three, times my age. i've probably spent more of my life than her fussing about hairloss. that's genetics and bleach damage, though -- years of haphazardly burning my scalp in the bathroom for candy pink hair took its toll. i miss it sometimes, especially when i look back at photos, but not enough to break out the quickblue and 20vol developer.
i had a dream that i bleached my hair again. my entire head. it was messy and uneven and bronzy and limp like gummy string and i hated it, that i chose to do it, that i was stuck with it. the years i spent with my life steeped in petal pink persists in my yoga mat, my clothing, my bags, but i've reveled in reaching for greens and black. it feels like growing up -- it feels like finally changing, even when i spent my late teens and earliest twenties thinking i would have pink hair forever (to the point of wondering how it might affect my job prospects).
the next day, fresh from a drive up the PCH, i parted my hair -- healthy, long, black -- to either side of my face. i combed it up to my temples, then further back, and tied up the ponytails. sockbuns aren't my favorite, i'd gotten enough of them when dance instructors took over coaching my cheerleading team in high school, so i went for twisting them away from my face and wrapping them around themselves. once pinned in place, the tips sprayed out in
silent bedroom rebellion.