Talking to Hear Myself
I got there late, but only 5 minutes or maybe 10. I said, “It’s not my fault, I got behind two school buses…two, and they were yellow and on the same street.” Then I said, “I figured you would have someone in the chair and I’d have extra time.”
She smiled a sweet smile and said, “Nope, no one before you. That’s ok. Two buses?”
I nodded then sat in my hair guru's chair and watched her put an unflattering black cape over me. I said, “You own a pink pistol and a rifle and ride a pink four-wheeler and all you can come up with is a black bib?” I kept talking to help her forget my lateness.
In the station next to me, a high school girl with curly hair had it cut short and straightened. A woman waited for her in a spare chair on the other side. My hair guru said to the girl, “That style makes you look older.”
“Good,” the girl said.
Sometimes you really want to be one of the girls. Sometimes a dye soaked brain shouldn’t speak. “It DOES make you look older,” I said. “Your mom will want to keep you locked in your bedroom.” I looked at the woman in waiting.
Like right before a tornado but before the hail—when everything goes quiet, it did.
Then my pink-gun totin’, size 0, hair guru whispered, “That’s not her mother, that’s her sister.”
I hear the girl laugh behind me from the shampoo chair. “She thinks you’re my mother.”
“I’m not your mother,” She says then mumbles something I can’t hear.
I’m sure she was offended and went straight to the mirror on the wall once she got home. “Who’s the fairest one of all,” I can just hear her say, “I’m not her mother.”
After that, when I finally stopped talking, I sat there thinking how it wasn't my first insult to someone else and that I've said worse things.
Moral: Your 2 cents offered can never be returned.