Elodie
Cursing words my father would be ashamed of me for knowing, I reach blindly into the bucket beside my upturned head, feeling for my hair gel. I consider, not for the first time, that maybe I would enjoy being bald. Feeling the wind on my scalp as I bask in the knowledge that I will never have to endure another hair-day torture session again? I’m one more dollop of conditioner in my eyeball away from that becoming my reality.
Curly hair? It’s great. Fun. Funky. Fresh. Cool.
An absolute nightmare to care for.
It takeshoursto tame it into some semblance of submission, just to receive a giant,haha, you thoughtwhen it dries in whichever direction it desires, defying the laws of not only hair products but often gravity as well.
As more curses fall from my lips, I swipe at my wet eyes with an equally wet forearm and wonder how much longer I’ll be able to withstand the blood rush caused by holding my head upside down for extended periods of time. Surely, this is the source of my recent slew of idiocy; hair-day-induced stupidity.
Finally, a bottle I’m pretty sure contains my hair gel finds its way into my hand. A quick squint through sopping wet eyelashes confirms it’s most definitely, probably, the gel that I was looking for, so I open the bottle, squeeze a hefty glob into my hands, and get to work scrunching it into my hair.
The door to the bathroom creaks open, and I bark, “Thatdoor was cracked for airflow, Salty, not as an invitation for you to wander in. Go away.”
Roman adds a curse of his own to the mixture of mine, saying, “You already started.”
“Started what?” I ask, dropping my arms to wiggle some of theouchout before going back in to get the next section of hair.
“Your curl routine,” he grumps. “You started early.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Captain Obvious. I started early. Great observational skills. Excellent job. Now, if that’s all, kindlyleave.”
I huff, and the wet tag of my T-shirt scratches at my back, compounding the awful that is this experience.
Roman, in league with my shirt tag, does not leave. “I came to apologize,” he says, looming by the door. “And I brought a gift.”
Is he…
Is he for real right now?
Nowis when he wants to apologize to me?
When I’m upside down, wet, sore, and tired?
He cannot be serious.
“Roman, I’m kind of busy? Do your apology tour later.”
“I brought you a gift,” he repeats. “To say sorry.”
Great. Another one of his flowers-and-chocolates apologies. Not that there’s anything wrong with flowers or chocolates, per se, but they give…
Impersonal.
It does not give sincere, thoughtful, heartfelt remorse. It gives five seconds at a grocery store and thinking that makes up for any and all sins against a person, any person, because there’s nothingspecificabout the repentance. It could be for anyone anywhere.
No freaking thank you.
I’ll buy my own flowers and chocolates if I want them. He can keep his guilt gift.
“I don’t want your gift,” I tell him, returning the gel to the jumble of half-used products beside me. “You can keep it.”
“I don’t want to keep it,” he grumbles. “It’s for you.”
I rise, sighing as I reach for my hair towel. A respite is in sight. First, I plop my mound of hair into my special mouse-faced microfiber towel, then I sit upright for a while while it does its work well enough for me to pull out the diffuser and begin the final round of upside-down madness.
I turn toward Roman while I button my towel so that the cute little mouse face sits cheerfully above my forehead. “I don’t wa—” I stop, jaw dropping at the gift he’s brought me—a gift that is most definitelynotflowers and chocolate.
