Random Sunday: Take it Off


I am finally back in the habit of typing.  I picked up a new computer after hardware failure of the other one and I’m back!  I typed up one of the scenes I wrote longhand last week.


“I dress like a nun.”

“You’ve always dressed like a nun.”  That was Michelle for you. Always keeping it real.

“I’m done with it.  I’m over dressing like a nun because its what a proper young lady would do.”

MIchelle sat in the chair in front of her desk, keeping  her distance but staring at me just the same.  The look on her face changed from looking at me like I had two heads to examining me with curiosity. “This isn’t because of Troy is it?”

I rolled my eyes and sighed.  “No.”

“Because you know, he’s not the only guy at HELL high.  You don’t need a makeover. ”

“No, its not about Troy.  I just need your…”

“I mean, If you’re really sore about him rejecting you…”

“He didn’t reject me.  We weren’t even together.  Goodness, I just want your help.”

Michelle’s lips formed a straight line as she gave me the type of look TV mother’s give their TV daughters when they’re sure they’re being lied to but don’t want to hurt their daughter’s feelings.  My eyes landed on the silver scissors laid behind her.

Just do it.  The voice was low and scratched at the base of my throat.  She’s not even listening.  Just do it.

Like the mom I didn’t have or want, Michelle said to me, “You know, any guy would be lucky to have you.”

With that I reached pasted her and grabbed them.  In a blink the sounds of dull sheers cutting through my long strands filled my ears.  Scrhtirtch.  I grabbed another chunk of hair closer to my head and cut again. Schriiiitch. The dried locks of hair fell against my cheeks and neck soft like feathers.  My fingers felt for the soft curly texture closest to my scalp.

“Are you kidding me?”  Michelle’s face was scared and shocked.

“No.  I’m not.”   My breath was hard and excited as the realization of the act hit me.

“Girl! You are not mixed.  Its not going to grow back all super fast.” She motioned to her strands of  wavy black hair that were courtesy of her latino father and her black mother.  “What about school?”  She reached for the scissors but I held them  out of reach. “Screw that, what are you going to tell your dad?” I hadn’t thought of the reaction of my classmates.  I ran my fingers over the small patch of short, thick hair and pictured their shocked faces.  “what if you hate it?”

Her last question snapped me out of  imagining the possible ways my classmates and my dad would react.   “I hate it now,”  I said and reached for another section of hair and chopped it off without looking.  The strands floated passed my shoulders and landed on Michelle’s floor.

Finally a small smile broke through the look of horror.  “You’re crazy,” she said as she reached for the scissors again.  I held them away again.  “At least let me help.  You’re making a mess of your head and my room.”

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