Member-only story
Middle School, Catheters, and My First Hair Cut
“Life turns on a dime” — Stephen King
I hopped off a huge yellow bus after a long day of seventh grade to find out my mother had passed away in her sleep. My life shattered like a glass platter crashing into the unforgiving tile floor. As if seventh grade wasn’t hard enough, I had to walk through the bland school halls with a new vulnerability. My mother was my best friend. We watched TV together, played board games, tried to beat each other’s high score in Bejeweled, and went shopping together. It took her a while, but she grew comfortable with letting my whole wardrobe consist of boy’s clothes. She’d even stick up for me if another adult mentioned it. She’d watch me play video games while she played solitaire and tease me if I was losing. Music would fill the house and she’d sing and dance as if no one was watching. However, the only thing she absolutely refused to do was let me get my hair cut.
She loved my hair; everyone did. Everyone loved to tell me I had beautiful hair. Nobody mentioned how I had to endure whole afternoons in the beauty salon. The older women were nice. They gave me peppermints and asked about my grades. I still hated it there. It felt like I was pretending. When the hair stylist was done, she’d ask “Do you like it?” I’d lie and say yes. My hair was long, silky, and black — as long as it had been permed. One time…
