I found this while looking through my disk drive today. I honestly don't remember writing it. But I thought I would share (especially seeing as I haven't posted on this blog in a very long time).
This hairdo's truly evil
My hair did not sit right. Looking at it, at the age of twelve, it looked like an ugly foreign object, a strange creature caught in an uncomfortable and unflattering pose. It looked like the worse thing in the world. Outside my door, I knew that there were girls who could do all kinds of tricks with their hair, who could smooth and style and tame without effort. Their hair did as it was told. These girls made me feel like I’d missed out on something essential, like I was the last one to have a go at a game of Chinese whispers. By the time it got round to me, the secret had melted into incomprehensible vowel sounds; opaque, guttural, primordial. And I could only sit there, stuck dumb, with no idea of how to translate their expired, messy leftovers.
I wanted to cause injury to my hair. I wanted to make my hair scream. I felt something like murder run through my veins. And scissors made it all so easy. Blades together, silky smooth and my hair fell like wisps of smoke. I was exacting revenge. Through sheer will, through merciless vengeance, I was going to reclaim the control which had eluded me for too long. I was going to set things right. I was flush and heady with self-determination, I could teach myself to do all the things they could do. And those girls would never see me coming.
The next day, arriving to school, they recognised the difference right away. One of them moved towards me, the others behind, and I held my breath.
‘Nice hair, Susan’ she said to a background hum of sniggers.
The double-speak of young girls. Words with hidden knifes.