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The Mac screen reflected Jake’s scruffy, pale face back at him. He had been at the kitchen table so long, his device chose to conserve what little energy it had left. His camera hid behind his laptop, ashamed of his lack of inspiration and creativity. The notebook to the left of him displayed a list of crossed out topics with comments like “boring” and “contrived” next to single lines. He ran his aqua-nailed finger over the topics, attempting to salvage them. At this point, Jake heard a depression nap calling his name.
A jingle at the door finally broke his unintentional, self-absorbed trance. He tried to power his laptop back on as Leiomy walked through the back entrance into the kitchen with her hand covering her face, bonnet over her hair. When he failed to conceal his own embarrassment, he started to notice hers. “Hey, back already?” he asked.
She froze with her back facing him seven feet away. Having been compromised, she rolled her shoulders back and placed one foot behind the other to slowly turn around. Her gaze met the floor. In her endeavor to avoid judgment, she noticed the amount of dust and crumbs piling up. Did they really live like this? She scrunched her face.
“That bad, huh?” Jake misjudged. “Let me see.” He stood up as he started to reach for her bonnet.
“Boy, if you don’t!” She slapped his hand away. Readjusting herself, she prepared her reveal. She untied the knot around her chin and pulled the cloth from the top of her head, quickly throwing it in his face. She tried to beat feet out of the room, but Jake was a better athlete than he ever let on.
“Aht aht! Come back.” He chased her to the hallway but was met with ringed fingers that pushed him back into the room.
When Leiomy turned the corner back into the kitchen, he noticed her hair was still in a bun. “I didn’t get anything done. The place wasn’t for me,” she said, darting her eyes away from him.
Sensing a compelling story if he asked the right questions, Jake pointed his camera and flicked it on while he resumed his seat. With a remote in his pocket, he started the recording. “That’s not what really happened? I mean, Flounce is cool, trendy. Shit, I go there.” He rubbed the back of his head to judge how soon he needed to make his next appointment.
“Yeah, but…” she started to be sensitive but decided she was at home, “it was so mothafuckin white in there. Like, I think I saw one black girl in the back under the dryer but like… parecía peligroso, I dunno.”
Jake tried to hone his high school level Spanish classes. “Pinot Grigio? But I tho--”
“No, stupid. Sketchy. Keep up. I dunno, I just… I’m used to feeling like this bad bitch, as confident, making people quake when I walk past ‘em. But in there, I didn’t feel threatened or nothing, but I felt like an other, even more than usual, you know. So like with that and then not even knowing what to ask for cause it’s my first time in a salon--”
“Wait, you never went with your aunties?”
Leiomy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, they loved me and I was they favorite and all, but they weren’t gonna take who they thought was their sobrino with them to the salons. They wanted to gossip in peace.” She paused. “Maybe I should call them up. They haven’t seen me in years.” She stretched her mouth as if to convey doubt. “I wonder if mommy told them.” A hush fell over the room.
Jake, feeling they had only scratched the surface, wanted more. This was exactly the kind of diversity he couldn’t drum up from within. Sure, he just kicked two guys out of his bed this morning, but his exploits barely seemed interesting compared to this hair journey. “But shouldn’t you try to face your fears here first? Confront the gentrification of your scalp?”
“Wait, what? Who said anything about…” her finally looked his direction, the camera obviously pointing at her. As she noticed the red light blinking, Jake fumbled frantically in his pocket. “Jacob! You mothafucker, how many times do I gotta tell you to stop recording me without my consent? You lucky I don’t throw that fuckin camera across the room.”
“I can explain. I was just gonna look at this test footage first and then ask if--”
“I thought we were friends, but it feels like you’re just interested in making me your lil muse or some shit. You got a curse on me or something?” she stared him down.
Jake’s reaction speed got the better of him. “Ew, no.” He paused with fear as he closed his mouth.
“Ew?! So now your trans muse is disgusting. Ok, you cis bitch. Fucking white gays, I swear ya’ll worst than the straights cause ya’ll think you can get away with shit.” She started to storm out of the room.
“Leiomy, wait! I just… you’re so interesting. I wanted to tell your story!”
She stood by the staircase, posing dramatically. Turning only her head, she replied, “I tell my story when I’m gotdamn ready. But for now it’s still unwritten; word to my girl Natasha!” With that, she stomped up the stairs to her room.
“Well she can’t be that mad at me if she’s quoting British girls at me,” Jake whispered to himself.
“Shut up!” she yelled
down at him. Slamming her door, she ran to her makeup desk and collapsed. She
wanted to cry, but she was exhausted. Looking above her mirror at her
collection of wigs, she wondered how long she’d resign herself to these
substitutes. She pulled her favorite one off the wall and positioned it on her
head. She stared at her reflection, and after a few seconds she smiled. “Hey,
excuse me, miss,” she practiced. “Yeah, I want this,” pointing to her head,
“but for real,” and de-wigged herself. She started laughing at herself. “What,
bitch? I’m serious! Make it work.”
Word
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