Sharp Objects

It seemed fitting our theme was curls just when Whitney Houston decided to bless us with her presence. “Dance With Somebody” spilled through the small speakers of my lap top. The vision of her curls bouncing around as she danced in the video flashed in my head. We both stopped and looked at each other - not much time had passed since our conversation about this specific song as we blew our smoke into the cool night air. We were thinking of CJ of course, because as it turned out, our lives now had a permanent line drawn vertically through them, signifying a very defined before, and after. 

But another memory had originally inspired me to jot that word on my scrap of paper before tossing it into the glass vase it would later be selected from. I remembered sitting under the wobbly dining room table in our tiny apartment, the sliding glass door leading to the concrete enclosure we called the patio, just inches behind me. I wasn’t old enough to be allowed to handle scissors, yet I was apparently old enough to be left unattended for long enough to not only find them, but also sneak them to my hiding place under the table. That’s the part I remember the most about the earlier years of my childhood, being alone. 

I had imagined that I was in a castle and the chairs where the brick pillars that encased me. I was a princess dawning a head of wild curls that spiraled and bounced with each movement I made. 

I took my time in selecting a single curl, holding it in my left hand as I opened the large metal scissors with the tiny fingers of my right. The helpless curl rested flesh against the blade, but something made me hesitate. At three-years-old, I had morals. I knew what I was about to do was wrong. I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch the sharp objects around the house. I knew I wasn’t supposed to mess up my hair after mommy took the time to wash it and brush it. But there I found myself, hiding in plane site, my tiny castle under the table with its invisible walls, scissors in hand, and the need to do something bad. Because there wasn’t anyone to stop me. 

My hesitation was interrupted by the sound of her coming around the corner. I froze, scissors in hand, heart pounding in my chest. She took one look at me, but before she could lunge and interviene, I acted without thought and squeezed as hard as I could, severing each intertwined strand. The little curl fell like a feather, as if in slow-motion, floating weightlessly back and forth in the dusty air of our tiny apartment, before hitting the kitchen tile with a silent thud. 

Maybe it was a peek into the future and the person who would emerge. Maybe it was an independent soul craving love and attention, even if it meant losing a piece of herself.