Shalot
04-27-2007, 10:14 PM
Below is a story. What do you think about these characters and their friendship?
************************************************** ********
“Why so somber faced, Hannah?” she asked, almost mockingly as she made her entrance into the bathroom with her umbrella, tapping it on the floor as though she were a tap dancer making her entrance on a stage. I’d never spoken a word to her, and I didn’t have any classes with her. I knew who she was just because it was impossible not to notice the strange, petite, fairy girl with the yellow hair and the intense eyes, wearing the clothes that were somewhere between Gap fashion and hippie store chic. And then there was her bright yellow hair, which enabled you to identify her among all the other fake blondes in freshman hall --- hers was the most blonde, the most intense. There she was, addressing me in the bathroom. She actually knew who I was, even though no one else seemed to know my name, or even noticed that I was, in fact, somber faced.
At once I was struck, even though everything about her went against what I knew to be acceptable. Her hair was yellow, not blonde. It was so obvious that she poured drugstore hair dye all over her hair, which was thin and crispy. She didn’t even bother to find out which shade of dye might look best on her. She probably just picked up the first box of dye she saw. I imagined her bursting into the drugstore the way she burst into the bathroom that day, heading straight for the hair dye aisle with a cigarette stuck to her bottom lip, and then snatching the first box with a picture of blonde locks on it .
She kept dark cherry lipstick in her pants pocket (the cheapest kind that cost $1.29) and she put it on without using a mirror (not that she ever got it on straight anyway – whenever she talked you could see her lipstick on her front tooth). The point of make-up and hair dye is to subtly enhance the appearance. The point of her hair dye and make-up was simply this: here’s the hair dye, here’s the make-up. I am doing the girl thing so let’s just……….”
I can’t remember now if she “befriended” me or if I sought her companionship. It happened at a yearbook meeting and I was somehow invited to her home. She smoked Marlboro Reds in her bedroom and asked me if that made me uncomfortable. It did make me uncomfortable, but I shrugged it off. I mean, my parents smoked cigarettes, and I told myself that I shouldn’t be so shocked to see a 14-year old smoking in her bedroom when her parents were home. She only smoked one and her own mother was smoking three rooms over so the house already had the stench of cigarettes --- it’s not like she could get busted for it. It wasn’t long before I lit up a Marlboro Red in front of my dad, to which he replied, “You didn’t even inhale.”
She liked to read and could often be seen with her walkman listening to cassette tapes of obscure grunge or speed metal bands while studying a ratty paperback. She’d sit with her knees folded to her chest and her legs always looked like she’d spent the day before climbing trees or running through brambles, with all the scratches and bruising. I remember her reading Helter Skelter and asking me if I’d ever read it. She’d get me high and ask me if I ever read Helter Skelter, and I would always say no.
I didn’t want to read that book. Charles Manson was a murderer and that didn’t interest me. Once she talked to me about persuading people to do things they wouldn’t normally do, but I was tired. I couldn’t understand how we could seemingly smoke the same amount, and I’d always end up in some other world drifting in and out, catching glimpses of her as she sat in her brown chair, reading through the night in the dim glow of her room, with the black and white walls, and the black light and the poster of the rainbow being sucked into a black hole.
The last time I saw her, she invited me to lunch. She was getting married in a few months. I can’t remember what we talked about. It was uncomfortable, as it always had been, but she was polished now. She no longer had the over-processed chemical hair. It was professionally cut and probably dyed, but natural looking. Her make-up was flawless and she was dressed for a board meeting. She had probably just come from one. She was easy-going --- all the anger was gone. When we left the restaurant, she had an umbrella, and she offered to share it with me. But that is the only thing she ever shared. I am still trying to figure out what she took.
************************************************** ********
“Why so somber faced, Hannah?” she asked, almost mockingly as she made her entrance into the bathroom with her umbrella, tapping it on the floor as though she were a tap dancer making her entrance on a stage. I’d never spoken a word to her, and I didn’t have any classes with her. I knew who she was just because it was impossible not to notice the strange, petite, fairy girl with the yellow hair and the intense eyes, wearing the clothes that were somewhere between Gap fashion and hippie store chic. And then there was her bright yellow hair, which enabled you to identify her among all the other fake blondes in freshman hall --- hers was the most blonde, the most intense. There she was, addressing me in the bathroom. She actually knew who I was, even though no one else seemed to know my name, or even noticed that I was, in fact, somber faced.
At once I was struck, even though everything about her went against what I knew to be acceptable. Her hair was yellow, not blonde. It was so obvious that she poured drugstore hair dye all over her hair, which was thin and crispy. She didn’t even bother to find out which shade of dye might look best on her. She probably just picked up the first box of dye she saw. I imagined her bursting into the drugstore the way she burst into the bathroom that day, heading straight for the hair dye aisle with a cigarette stuck to her bottom lip, and then snatching the first box with a picture of blonde locks on it .
She kept dark cherry lipstick in her pants pocket (the cheapest kind that cost $1.29) and she put it on without using a mirror (not that she ever got it on straight anyway – whenever she talked you could see her lipstick on her front tooth). The point of make-up and hair dye is to subtly enhance the appearance. The point of her hair dye and make-up was simply this: here’s the hair dye, here’s the make-up. I am doing the girl thing so let’s just……….”
I can’t remember now if she “befriended” me or if I sought her companionship. It happened at a yearbook meeting and I was somehow invited to her home. She smoked Marlboro Reds in her bedroom and asked me if that made me uncomfortable. It did make me uncomfortable, but I shrugged it off. I mean, my parents smoked cigarettes, and I told myself that I shouldn’t be so shocked to see a 14-year old smoking in her bedroom when her parents were home. She only smoked one and her own mother was smoking three rooms over so the house already had the stench of cigarettes --- it’s not like she could get busted for it. It wasn’t long before I lit up a Marlboro Red in front of my dad, to which he replied, “You didn’t even inhale.”
She liked to read and could often be seen with her walkman listening to cassette tapes of obscure grunge or speed metal bands while studying a ratty paperback. She’d sit with her knees folded to her chest and her legs always looked like she’d spent the day before climbing trees or running through brambles, with all the scratches and bruising. I remember her reading Helter Skelter and asking me if I’d ever read it. She’d get me high and ask me if I ever read Helter Skelter, and I would always say no.
I didn’t want to read that book. Charles Manson was a murderer and that didn’t interest me. Once she talked to me about persuading people to do things they wouldn’t normally do, but I was tired. I couldn’t understand how we could seemingly smoke the same amount, and I’d always end up in some other world drifting in and out, catching glimpses of her as she sat in her brown chair, reading through the night in the dim glow of her room, with the black and white walls, and the black light and the poster of the rainbow being sucked into a black hole.
The last time I saw her, she invited me to lunch. She was getting married in a few months. I can’t remember what we talked about. It was uncomfortable, as it always had been, but she was polished now. She no longer had the over-processed chemical hair. It was professionally cut and probably dyed, but natural looking. Her make-up was flawless and she was dressed for a board meeting. She had probably just come from one. She was easy-going --- all the anger was gone. When we left the restaurant, she had an umbrella, and she offered to share it with me. But that is the only thing she ever shared. I am still trying to figure out what she took.