C. Beston: I Saw Her
Photo: Joanna C. Valente
I Saw Her, in the Hair Salon
THE SMILING GIRL at the reception desk greets my mother. Two wash, cut, and styles please. My younger sister goes first. A soap suds gurgle down the drain’s throat.
IN THE PHOTOGRAPH books of hair styles the models smile, smile. My book is divided Long, Mid-length, Short, Bridal, Formal. Girls lit fluorescent: white teeth, spider-leg mascara, wide eyes against the flash. The Prom Queen on a purple background like I wanted in my school picture. They ordered blue. She doesn’t strain, her eyelids half-closed blinds, baby pink lips, softer smile.
I wander into the salon-room. I don’t know it, but I am a distraction. Fragmented hair IS DEAD on the floor and the receptionist hurries to sweep it up like I collect bruised cherry blossom petals from the sidewalk at home. Rain starts again outside, and a blue-haired pantsuit says it feels like we’re IN WASHINGTON STATE.
The haircut is done. Megan-our-hairdresser swirls the iron to burn those Shirley Temple curls. My sister is almost ready to be POSED FOR our annual department store portrait.
I return to THE OPENING CREDITS OF the hair style book, turn to Formal Hair Styles to stare, again, at the Prom Queen. She reminds me of a guarded celebrity, a flashbulb paparazzi photograph, accompanied by a headline about her broken heart, and how she’s quitting A TELEVISION SHOW.
C. Beston grew up on the edge of the woods in northern Delaware and currently pursues writing and filmmaking in the Pacific Northwest. Her work has been published in Smokelong Quarterly and Okay Donkey. Her website is cbestonwork.com.
