Melissa Etheridge wailed an appropriate sentiment through the car speakers as Rachel backed out the drive and proceeded to the corner.
I cannot run,
I cnnot hide,
it came with me,
locked inside,
the bough will break,
the cradle will fall,
it only takes one call.
Rachel lowered the windows, inviting the nippy autumn air inside, and stopped at the corner to look at the contents of the large envelope again. Her hands shook in a state of combined fear and anger that edged so close to loss of control that it frightened her. She sorted through the baggies that had come stuffed in the envelope: several small bags containing long, single auburn hairs, and a bigger one full of trimmings, obviously collected from a salon floor. What kind of lunatic had followed her around collecting hair, and then mailed it to her?
A sociopathic lunatic according to the police; yet, they still refused to arrest him. Since she had survived his first attack with no permanent (physical) damage, and neither collecting nor mailing hair violated his probation, some legal brainiac decided she would have to deal with it, or hope he did something worse. Neither seemed fair.
She watched for a safe opening and made the turn, squealing the tires when she floored the gas pedal and dared anyone to get in her way or try to stop her. To hell with the speed limit. If laws didn't apply to sociopaths, their victims should also be exempt. She turned the volume up and shrieked the chorus with Melissa. The ends of her hair escaped through the window, floated on the wind, and tugged at the roots still connected to her head, challenging the rest of her to want the same freedom.
So you're having a breakdown,
so you're losing a fight,
so you're having a breakdown
I'm driving and crying,
unraveled, I'm flying,
I'm coming to your breakdown tonight.
What started as a mad drive suddenly developed purpose when she remembered a walk-ins welcome sign on a shop she had passed in the mall. She drove up the interstate ramp and activated cruise control, since tears and the irrational decisions proved that self-control had abandoned her.
She rushed through the mall, hoping this was the correct mall, and she wasn't too late. Luck was with her. Not only was the shop there, between the pet and toy stores where she clearly remembered it now, the receptionist escorted her immediately to a station and promised someone would be right with her.
"Beautiful hair," an over-zealous stylist repeated several times as he circled the chair, fluffing Rachel's hair around her face. "We need to take a few inches off, and put some layers around your face."
"Cut it all off," Rachel said. "Short. I want something sassy and sporty."
The stylist folded his arms and stepped back to examine her. "As sweet as that might look on you, it's too drastic. And I would hate to cut off this gorgeous hair." He ran his fingers through her hair, from scalp to hips.
"Can I donate it to cancer patients or something?" she asked. "I have to do this tonight, before I lose my nerve."
He bobbed his head several times with his brows drawn together. "So this is an impulsive decision?"
"Not entirely," she said. Strangely, he seemed more upset over the situation than she felt. "I've thought about it for years, but let a man stand in the way of my decision. I'm ready to let go, of both of them. The hair and the man."
Rick, whose name she saw on the stack of business cards sitting on the vanity, let out a hoot and clapped his hands. "So this is a revenge cut. Honey, I'd never stand in the way of vengeance. As long as you're positive you want to do this."
"Positive," she said, feeling the first twinge of doubt.
Rick wrapped a cape around her shoulders and led her to the sink. "It'll be so much easier to care for, and you'll save a small fortune in shampoo," he said as he wet her hair with the sprayer. He lathered, reached for the shampoo bottle a second time, and whistled. "Girl, you've got more hair than I've ever seen on one person. I wish I had cut about a foot of it off before I brought you back here."
"Can I donate it?" she asked. "I'll feel better if I don't just leave it on your floor."
He wrapped her hair in a towel and guided her back to the seat. "We aren't set up for that. But you can take it home with you and check it out later."
After he had combed her hair and tied several ribbons around it, Rick cut off a two-foot ponytail and handed it to her. She stared at the hair in her hands, afraid to look up, even though her back was to the mirror. "I expected to feel immediate regret." The words gave her the courage to meet his eyes. "I don't know how to describe what I feel." She shook her head. "I feel free. Yes. I don't think this is a negative feeling."
The hostess brought a binder to Rachel. "Thought you might need these. Pictures of different styles."
"No." Rick said. "I know exactly what I want to do with her."
Rachel shrugged and returned the book to the hostess. "I'll trust him."
"Low maintenance, air dry, no products," Rick said. "That's you, right?"
She nodded. "You got it. But, I'll probably need make-up if you give me a little boy cut."
He clucked his tongue. "I won't let you down. I'm going for a soft, tousled look that I promise will not make anyone mistake you for a little boy."
Rachel threw her hands up. "Okay. Do it."
He snipped and chatted, keeping the chair turned so she couldn't see anything until he had finished and spun her around to face the mirror. By then, she was the only customer left in the shop. The hostess and two remaining stylists had come to watch her reaction.
A nervous giggle escaped before she spoke. "I love it!" She ran her fingers through the fringe around her face and watched it fall back into place, giggling again. "I look ten years younger."
"And still like a girl," Rick said.
Her audience offered compliments; both to her, for making the decision, and to Rick, for creating the perfect look for her. She continued to play with her hair and smile. "I don't know how to thank you."
"Pay me so I can go home," he said. "We're holding up mall security."
She jumped up, embarrassed, and pulled a credit card from her pocket. "I'm sorry I kept you late," she said, handing the card over and picking up her ponytail from the vanity. She thought about telling him this was the most fun she had had in months, but realized that made her sound like a total loser, unless she explained that she had been holed up, hiding from her stalker, in which case he might still think she was a total loser.
The other employees left. Rachel followed Rick to the desk, eyeing herself in another mirror while he processed the card. "Thanks again," she said. "I can't tell you how pleased I am with the cut."
"I am too," he said. "Now, I hope this will open new doors, and you'll stay away from whoever's mistreating you. No one deserves to be punched around like that."
Rachel looked in the mirror again, this time seeing everything. "Want to hear something funny?" she asked.
"Sure." He came around the counter and walked her out.
"I forgot all about my face while I was here. Until you brought it up."
"Sorry."
"No. It's nothing to be sorry about," she said. "You gave me an hour of safe, stress-free fun. I can't tell you what that means. Know why?"
"Nope," he said, waving at the security guard as they passed him and stepped off the curb into the parking lot.
"You looked at me like a real person. No sympathy, no disgust, no judgment. You aren't a cop or a co-worker. Or a parent. Because you didn't react, I forgot for a little while. Thank you."
"The black eye doesn't keep you from being a real person," he said. "You'll need a trim in about a month," he said. "I'll bet your bruises are gone by then."
Rachel pressed the buttons on the remote and opened her door. "I'll hold you to that bet. See you next month," she said before getting in the car.
She put her ponytail in the glove compartment and ejected the CD before leaving the parking lot. At the first red light, she tossed the envelope of baggies out the window and pulled the visor down for another look at her new self.
Sociopath beware; the breakdown is over.
(Song lyrics from Breakdown written and performed by Melissa Etheridge.)
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Comments: 72
Who knows. Maybe it's late and I am way off the mark. But, I did like it.
It was still a darn good read. Thanks, Sandy.
Anyway, Sandy, I like this. A LOT.
I think the meaning is clearer to women. So much emotion is attached to our appearance, especially our hair. And the person who abused and stalked her needed a reminder that he was not in control. The haircut was an act of resolution, a refusal to play the game any longer. Her defiance and newfound hope are clear. And the hair, after being cut off, is in HER hands, not his.
I have the benefit of having had really long hair, and cutting it really short after leaving a 7 yr relationship. I had wanted to cut it off for a long time, like this gal, but he always begged me to leave it. My shearing was also a celebration... although I was not physically abused (that time, anyway)
Very nice story, Sandy.
I'm also still wondering about the logistics of the stalker getting hair clippings off the salon floor . . . I'm not questioning that it's possible, but I'm having trouble getting around that in a strictly linear sense. My mind is going off in all sorts of directions . . . like if she always has her hair trimmed at the same place, does the stalker have some kind of "in" with her hairdresser? Has he sent her only the one envelope of hair? For some reason I got the idea that it had happened more than once, but I'm not sure why I thought that . . . I guess doing something that weird just once would still qualify him as a stalker.
I called three hairdressers before writing this scene. Each of them told me they do not have any kind of arrangement with Locks of Love, or any such organization, and, in a situation like this one, they would hand the hair over to the customer to take with her/him. One said he would 'organize' the hair by putting it in one ponytail with several bindings (my ribbons in the story), and if the hair was layered, he would make a separate ponytail for each length. All three said, if a man walked into the salon and asked for a handful of the hair that was on the floor, they would think the person was very strange, but would let him take it.
The messy-look cut is autobiographical. As you can probably imagine, I would rather eat worms than spend time on my hair. When I was younger and cared about how I looked even though I didn't want to put time and effort into it, my stylist (I should call him an artist or magician instead) cut my hair in styles that were supposed to look disheveled. There was literally nothing I could do to mess up my hair. I did not use any products.
Some girls with long hair do go for routine trimmings. My daughters do, but they don't have to go quite as often as someone with a short cut does. I hoped this would give some indication of how long the stalking had been going on (something that wasn't necessary in the longer version). And I see it did not work.
I appreciate the comments and discussion very much. When you guys let me know what doesn't work, I learn. Thank you.
"The ends of her hair escaped through the window, floated on the wind, and tugged at the roots still connected to her head, challenging the rest of her to want the same freedom."
Those words actually told me the whole story.
I think I just won a prize for "least coherent comment."
and if good, just get off. No place for serious writers-- and jst looking at the muck gather is promoting such as the scuttlebutt against Carter is really good indicaiton of the mentality of the site.
Donna, eeeerie thought... cutting the hair off while abusing her. Horrible, but I like it. At this point in the novel, we don't know if the stalker is someone she knows.
David, darn you. I'm going now to see how much hair it takes to fill a baggie, and how many baggies to stuff an envelope. Why do guys pick-up on things like this? (In an opening chapter, she whips around and her ponytail smacks the guy she was speaking with in the face. I submitted that chapter to a critique group and one of the guys responded with mathmatical formulas and told me exactly how tall she would have to be, and how long the ponytail would have to be, in order for that scene to work. I had heard enough dance partners complain about eating Lyrical's hair to know this could work)
"Positive," she said, feeling the first twinge of doubt.
I like how he acknowledges her purpose here.
You looked at me like a real person. No sympathy, no disgust, no judgment. You aren't a cop or a co-worker. Or a parent. Because you didn't react, I forgot for a little while. Thank you."
This almost struck me as more personal or involved than I would expect a woman to get with a hairdresser, but then I have always been perplexed by the relationship women have with their hairdresser.
great story
In the short story, however, it is clear from teh comments that it was too odd. Several commenters were completely arrested by the logistics involved in hair collection and packaging. In the short story, then, the whole concept was too distracting. Omit it and give us something else in the mail -- a description of her hair while she was playing frisbee, or a description of how she wore it recently, be it braided or up in a bun.
And, for the record: once again, everyone seems to assume everyone goes to hairdressers or barbers. :-(
I have cut the hair for every member of this family for the past 25 years. I could never, ever justify the prices for haircuts, so I taught myself how to do it.
If someone wanted a sample of my hair, there is often a wealth to be harvested on my hairbrushes. If the stalker was previously in this woman's abode, he need only clean her hairbrush.
Dannielle, I'll have to think about what you've said. I thought the envelope full of hair gave credibility to her snap decision to make such a drastic change. There might be a better way to do this, however, and I will see if I can think of it.
A hairdresser -- and I only obdserve this from a distance -- is a very intimate stranger. My mother and aunt are always talking about their hairdressers, and while they would probably never go out to dinner or go shopping together, nor would I expect to see them chitchatting on the phone in the evening, they still know a great deal about each other. I think hairdressers are like bartenders: they witness a great deal and eventually see all people more clearly than those people see themselves. The hairdresser you created here seemed very real to me.
As to the girl cutting off her hair... Girls/women who wear their hair long are a particular breed, I think. Long hair is a lifestyle. We might trim our hair, but we spend the bulk of our time with it long until and unless we make a *total* lifestyle change. As such, that whole process was perfectly emblematic of what the girl was going through. It helped illustrate the enormity of the fresh new start -- a real leap of faith, externalized.
Whatever you meant the symbolism to mean, you've achieved a writer's goal -- having people talking about your story.
I tried to edit and take out those extra lines that I couldn't get out before. The story disappeared.
I also wanted to add that I didn't realize this was part of a larger work.
I liked the sense of new found freedom that you expressed so well.
The hairdresser was suspect for all of about one minute. I think you nailed him perfectly. He sounded exactly like a guy that used to trim my hair.
I do agree that the last sentence isn't really needed, but, hey, it's your story!!
For the hair from getting it cut at a salon, how about the trash? The salon doesn't "save" the hair and most people don't take it - all the stalker has to do, being that he's following her everywhere, is check out the trash, after the salon closes. Makes perfect sense.
From the previous hair, a comb, hairbrush, strands on a pillow or many other things you will get, especially long hair from. I didn't think that was at all odd, other than the guy is obviously a psycho when he mails it to her. Which is what you'd said in the story, so you'd expect him to do something a little bit off, which he did. Loved the entire thing, GOOD writing makes me hungry, I'm eating, 'nuf said! :)
Marilyn
PS: The really short cut that's managable without using anything - think of short-layered hair. It looks tousled all on it's own.
Sandy, most guys don't 'get' the feelings your main character was going through, probably because they have not experienced having someone close share their experience with them. Unfortunately, I have met several.
Your story allows one to 'share' her experience and the joy of finally finding that 'first step' to taking control of her life back.
You DEFINITELY put the reader into the story, like a spirit watching the events unfold.
I THOROUGHLY enjoyed it!
This is why I joined Gather, thanks!
It would tie in nicely as as closure, bringing you back to the title.
Let the reader continue to imagine for themselves who the perpetrator is/was.
More mysterious that way.
Thanks for reading, and for your thoughtful comment.