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My Sorry Hairstyle
“You should take up my suggestion about a new hairstyle.”
“Why? You don’t like my hair the way it is?”
“No, of course I like it, it’s just that I know a look that would make you…” You’re teasing me again, Damon, I know you are, and you’re wearing my favorite smile, but I’m just a little hurt that you get tired of seeing the same old me day after day. I smile so you won’t know that you hurt my feelings, driving a needle-thin splinter into the heart I wear on my sleeve. But I’m being ridiculous, right? It’s only hair, after all. And even though you don’t think as much of me, I like you just the same every day. You needn’t change for me. But why would I tell you that? You don’t really care about my opinions. Stop looking at my lips, please. I’m not talking for your entertainment.
“My girlfriend and me went to see…” Just shut up. I love hearing you talk, even when you use bad grammar, but your girlfriend isn’t my favorite topic. I know her and respect her, but still I’m here, not discouraging your tickling flattery. *Sigh*. I’m so selfish. Please go away. Let me be guilt-free for one day, at least…
“Are you mad or something?” you ask.
“No. Just tired,” I lie. Please remove your warm fingers from the curtain my hair forms between us. Or did you forget? You don’t like my hair. I don’t want to laugh right now, so please stop squeezing my shoulder in an effort to elicit a smile from the lips you stare at.
You have a lot of friends. They all come to my desk, where you always are, to talk. You rest your hands on my desk, gripping either side and leaning forward, towering. Yeah, tell your best friend Jimmy to please back away from me. Oh, it’s funny? Sure, maybe for you. Do you think you’re greater than me, leaning high above me on my desk?
Don’t touch me; you have a girlfriend.
What an idiot I am. Sitting all alone at home and writing about you and your irritating habits, like how you say “my girlfriend and me” and wear socks with your sandals and insist on annoying me by pronouncing the word “milk” as “melk.” Would you move back a little? You’re crowding my face. I frown at the unexpected feeling of soft lips on mine. Yes, it’s a dream. I know it is; you wouldn’t dare kiss me; you can’t even stand my hairstyle.
You want to know what’s stupid, you vexatious boy? I pass your girlfriend in the hallway and we pretend to not look at each other. I don’t offer her a pleasant stranger-to-stranger smile like I do for most other people. Want to know why? Because I think she’s found you out. She doesn’t trust you. But we don’t say anything, oh, no. It would break our delicate triangle.
It’s the same with you and me. Those little smiles we share are hiding something that we are – for some reason – not allowed to share with the world. You whisper in my ear as we ignore the annoying people that talk to us. I sigh again, frustrated.
“Why don’t you ever date, Ezrin?” people ask me. Oh, I’m not sure. I don’t like people, perhaps. And the one stubborn jerk that is busy dating someone he doesn’t want to date won’t date me. “Are you lesbian or something?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I begin sarcastically. They look at me with wide eyes. “No. What kind of question is that?” Not that it would be any of their business if I were lesbian…
“Who do you like?” They ask, curiosity in their eyes, awaiting a juicy slab of gossip for their social tables. Half closing my eyes, I stare at them for a moment, straight-faced. But they’re slow, and I must speak for them to understand my cynicism.
“What makes you think I would like anyone in this school? I’ve known every boy here since second grade. It’s more fun to be single,” I tack onto the end, so they don’t think I’m trying to be mean to them. No, it’s actually just so they understand something of what I’m saying. Every other girl in the school has dated every other boy in this school, and they can’t grasp that not dating is the easiest thing in the world to pull off.
I sit down in class and you pull that stupid rolling computer chair up beside my desk, resting your elbow on your knee and beginning the conversation of a full account of your video game fest yesterday. Wow, I’m bored. Not only do I not understand a single thing of what you’re saying, but also, while you’re saying it, I am wondering in my head, for the quadzillionth time, why you pay attention to me. I’m not ugly, but I’m not beautiful, either. There are purple shadows beneath my eyes and I’m not exactly skinny. I’m what some people call “girl-next-door pretty.” That’s because of my long dark hair and too-red lips on gold skin. But now I’m getting conceited again, aren’t I?
“Mm-hmm. Well, that’s cool.” My God, can you think of something better to do than play video games all night? You stare at me, and your eyes narrow. Sorry, I think. I wish I knew what you were thinking sometimes. But you told me once that you hate that question: What are you thinking? You insist that most of the time you have a completely blank mind. Rolling my eyes, I smile at the thought.
“What?” you ask, smiling in response to my own smile. I don’t answer, just looking at you. “Have you considered maybe doing something different with your hair, Ezrin?” Oh, I want to punch your face.