It's All in the Hair

Silence. That's all that I can recall at the exact moment that followed her open-palm bitch-slap in front of that bumping party. Her eyes were wide open once she realized what she did and slowly she backed away. "What the?" I asked lowly.

Amy made a weird face, partly of guilt, but it didn't look all too sorrow-filled. Backing away she apologized in as low of a voice as I used and then she was gone.

Now, I stand before the mirror and am examining the harsh lil' red thing she left behind on my face. Is that four full fingers imbedded on my cheek? Oh, man, that's gonna leave a mark. Much longer than just this night.

Okay, so that happens...often. My mouth runs before my mind and my brain always loses that race. Putting my foot in my mouth is my best quality, according to my friends. Probably because they get to see me get beat on in times like these.

Bending over, I turn on the faucet and let the water run over my hands. Then, bringing the cool liquid to my face, I run my palms across my face and try to soothe myself. It's not so much the sore skin of my face, or the wounded ego of being slapped around by the girl I'm trying for. But, I think it's more of the problem that Amy must have been that embarrassed. I truly didn't mean to do that. That's the last thing I was going for. But, she made that crack about...

What was her name?

After I pat off my face of the moisture with some smooth terrycloth--my mom should get some towels like this, so nice and soft--When the HELL did I begin to think like THIS?!

As I was saying, I put down that stupid towel and stared into the mirror, once again examining the love-pat that Amy left behind. I run my open palm across the skin, then up and through my dusty-blonde hair. After a bit more of my gazing into the glass, I bring my hand back down my hair, pushing it forward. I haven't done my hair like this for a few years. Back in high school, I used to do the push-forward thing. But, now, it just kinda swings itself up--flicked in different ways--with the shitty curls my mom gave to me through her genes. I always hated them and brushed them beyond belief to remove them from my head.

Never to any avail, however. So, again, I keep sweeping my hand downward to see how different it looks compared to the way I've been doing my hair of late. I lean back slightly to examine myself and I turn my head from side to side.

Oh, no. Suddenly, a wave of recognition flashes. It can't be. Really...it just cannot be.

She was right. I'm gonna hit her if she realizes this for serious and goes with it.

My hair downward...covering half my forehead...the easy curls. God damnit, my hair looks like his.

What was his name? That religious one, the one with the nostrils the size of basketballs. The one who plays basketball...

There's a gentle knock at the door and I quickly try to recover my normal hairstyle as Amy enters the bathroom and looks at me with sheepish features. They disappear soon after she takes a good look at my actions. "What are you doing?" she asks oddly as I keep running my fingers through my 'bangs,' trying my best to push them back again.

"Nothing." I know, pathetic. But, hey, I tried. It was no use as she continued on with the stares and an awkward quirk of her eyebrow.

She muttered, I think something along the lines of 'Right,' but I can't be so sure. So, I try to shake it all off and glance back to the mirror. Assured that my hair looks the way it always has been whenever she's seen me, I lean a hand against the sink--trying to be smooth--and begin to speak, "So."

One quick swoop of my hand and I'm on the ground. Yep, now that's embarrassing. A flash comes before my eyes and next I know she's standing over me. My head is throbbing, and I don't think that's a good thing. Amy is kneeling beside me with a caring voice, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, it did." Obviously a man with a head injury cannot answer a question correctly. Because, I just did not do so. I swore she asked if it hurt, and then I realize she didn't ask that. The throbbing! Make it stop! A hand, most obviously hers, moves across my forehead and over some of my hair. It stops momentarily at my hairline and her eyebrows furrow. "What?"

In a soft voice, "There's a bump already and it's all red."

Evidently where I was hit, but with what? Looking around, I realize how close my head is to the tub. How do I explain this? I slipped on the sink and hit the tub? No, I got it; the tub attacked me, yeah, that's it.

Her hand continues its soothing movements as she stares down to me. With the way Amy's hand is going over my hair, I can just tell that she's pulling it back down over my forehead. Just like I was doing only five minutes ago. She keeps looking down and it feels like she can look right through my blue eyes and I begin to tense up. Do you really think she knew what I was thinking with my hair before she came in? Yes, I know paranoia.

A small chuckle escapes her lips and her face on holds the amused look briefly before it goes stoic. And her face is now back to the concerned. My eyebrows crease when she makes the little face again as if she's found some sort of delight in my condition.

Must I remind her how much my head is pounding with pain? And there's something of humor in the situation? Amy's antics continue as she makes the stupid face, then stops and looks somewhat serious and then AGAIN she makes that face.

So, finally, after much annoyance, I harp, "What is so funny?"

"Nothing." Yeah, she's as pathetic as I am about these things.

God, that only pisses me off even more that she's that flippant about things. She was obviously amused by something about me, and no I'm not being full of myself...she was only looking at me and apparently there's something funny about my situation. "There's obviously something funny about my condition." Yeah, I know, real original.

"Nothing," she tries harder to assure me, but it just isn't working.

Gritted teeth, that's gotta work..."What is it?"

And the way she begins this one is even more annoying, especially with how mad she now seems, "Now, don't get mad at me." It's like she isn't at any fault. Like I'M over-reacting.

Yeah...I'll show her over-reacting. "Just tell me what the fuck is so funny." I promised!

"No, it's, it's just that..." Yeah, stuttering always works well with perturbed people.

"It's just what?!" Hey, I told you I was getting pissed off!

"It's just that, your hair like that"... Oh God, please don't..."It kinda looks like"...Spare me NOW!..."Well, like a"...Shit, she's actually going to say this..."Backstreet"...NOOOOO!..."Boy."

"WHAT?!" Damnit, did she know? She couldn't have known that I was doing that thing with my hair just seconds before she walked in...Could she?

Anger flashes in her eyes quickly, "I told you it was nothing."

Amy got up in one swift movement, letting my head fall to the floor. "Oww!" letting another wave of pain run through my skull. She's really got a knack with hurting me.

Looking down quickly, I suppose she is realizing that I'm once again in agony, her face looks genuinely concerned. "I'm sorry," Amy says quickly.

"Yeah, that's fine," I wave back feebly through the misery, as she walks out the door and closes it.

Damn that girl.

And DAMNIT! DAMN ME!

His name is Brian...how the HELL did I know that ONE?!