Wow. Thank you so much. Immunity/reality tv=lol. Maybe I should just cut that thought entirely. It was always “at the Temple” I’m pretty darn sure. You think I should change it to “to the…”? I knew that about kamikazes and I thought I changed it. My bad. I’m not entirely sure what proper dialogue format is. When it comes to technical stuff, I suck. Thanks again for your time and thought.
Non-fiction / Untitled hair memoir /1st revision
Every six months or so, my father’s wife alerts me to the impending arrival of a large box. The box will contain artifacts from my past lives, carefully excavated from the second story of the house where I spent my youth. The house where my mother died.
Rusted tins of bobby pins
Broken jewelry
Matchbooks
Gift-with-purchase toiletry bags
Coins cemented together with decades old chewing gum
Every item has immunity from her trash cans, but most find their way into mine. So, when the baby book arrived in the company of my mother’s needlepoint kits and a fossilized candy bar, I was somewhat nonplussed. I approached it with the guarded curiosity I’d once reserved for uncircumcised penises and more recently for the miniature mountain range of peri-menopausal skin flaps emerging on my abdomen.
I thumbed through pages devoted to the minutiae of my infancy: sleep schedule, eating habits, inoculation records. I meditated on my mother’s penmanship and inhaled the fragrance of 60s-era, eco-unfriendly paper. I lapped up the milky details.
Twenty years earlier, my boots--seasoned by sweat, beer and the foul dance floors of Hollywood’s underground--revealed more about me than my face would divulge. I quit school, wrecked my car and joined a girls only skateboard gang. But first, I sacrificed my long, virgin hair at the Temple of Fuck You.
With the salty residue of a bourgeois, seaside upbringing still clinging to my split ends, I was in no hurry to lose the hair I’d become so skilled at flipping. But, when my Bo Derek braids didn’t make the cut at my first punk concert, I became willing. Plus, rumor had it that young women with long hair were routinely dragged into grungy nightclub restrooms and liberated of their locks at scissorpoint.
When I finally acquiesced, the result was severe, irreversible and completely unjustifiable to my parents. It was perfect. My friends said it was a haircut I’d have to live up to. Indeed the punk haircut was a rite of passage that in 1980, invited scorn and harassment, especially from the L.A.P.D.
“What would you like me to do with this? His tiny Asian hands examined my brunette tresses. “Umm, whatever you want,” I submitted nervously. He was now my God. The plastic cape, snug around my neck was the yoke of my devotion, my first fruits in glossy piles at his feet. The man had a reputation for giving good hair which in this town was a form of currency, traded between puffy Beverly Hills housewives, fags and artist types.
A small crowd began to gather. My friends softly cackled. The first 12 inches hit the floor like kamikaze pilots without parachutes. Blame it on the hallucinogens that had already travelled the length of my spine, but it appeared as though my stylist was incorporating martial arts techniques into the haircut. I sat stone-faced at the altar of his talent. Frozen with both reverence and terror, I fixated on the sterilization jar that held his many combs and scissors. I found solace in the viscosity of the blue fluid.
“Fear your creator!” Did he say that or did I? Or did THEY? Everything was running together in a kaleidescope of hair dye, shiny metal and matte lipstick. His fervor was a little alarming but when I scanned the room for validation from my friends (never moving my head, of course) I got the impression my perception was not shared. Jesus. Was my face always this pale?
Two hours later, “Blue Monday” by New Order carved in hieroglypics on my ear drums and I was reborn. He wiped the afterbirth from my temples, blew out the candles and slipped a hand mirror into my clutches.
One side was short, like an angled bob. Cute. One side was much shorter. And spiky. And pinkish. And orangish.
A ghostly cool grazed my scalp and made me smile.
The next morning I rushed to the mirror for verification. As a younger girl my hair belonged to my mother who favored a hairstyle not nearly as cute as its name: The Pixie. Monthly visits to the salon, nay, barber were not the stuff of powder-puff dreams and the mirror never had good news. Even as a small child I knew it was an assault on my femininity, I just didn’t know why. The world has no mercy for little girls with short hair and wide knees. So when I got the green light to grow it out, I did so with a vengeance.
But at 19, with seven years of hair growth laid to rest in a dumpster in West Hollywood, my self-image had been altered in curious ways. Where previously my long hair provided me popularity credentials, my new hair accomplished the opposite. My new hair declared me the prodigal outcast, headed back to the fringe without apology. My new hair talked back to the mirror. My new hair had balls.
As I descended the staircase, I could hear my mother sharpening the tools of her suffering in the kitchen. I anticipated some resistance, but didn’t imagine there would be tears. Wasn’t entirely sure her tear ducts still functioned. Such is the cruel truth about daughters and mothers. And there we stood, facing each other across the tile counter. Two petite women with very little hair, equalized by our self-loathing, unified in our disdain for each other, humbled by the power of a haircut.
Now, cradled in my palm like silken soap leaves, was the only pure thing left of me. Every cell in my body had since been replaced. Others were casualties of the war against myself. Blocks of memory from my childhood seemed to exist in a dark closet where the light switch was just beyond my reach. The parts I could recall were fragmented like a Picasso painting. Yet tucked between the pink plastic covers of a baby book for nearly 40 years under the heading, “Baby’s First Haircut,” was tangible evidence of an undamaged me.
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ekarbin reviewed Version 1 -
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pigpen reviewed Version 2 -
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It surprised me. “Hair Memoir” attracted me to read it and I didn’t know what to expect, and then there’s this friendly and very proper tone, and then….”uncircumcised penises,” out of nowhere.
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Alma_Libre reviewed Version 2 -
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Brilliant! I absolutely loved it. You have amazing story telling techniques. I am putting this into my favorites. I am blown away at the caliber of writing on this site and yours takes the cake.
Great job.
Take care,
Sandra (Alma Libre)
Treatsa reviewed Version 2 -
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“immunity from her trash cans.” – I think I liked the way you worded it in the first version better. The word ‘immunity’ has been destroyed by reality TV.
“at the Temple of Fuck You.” wasn’t it “to the…” in the first version? I liked that better too.
In fact I LOVED the first version, but I’m an ex-betty myself. Not quite the same vintage but your imagery and honesty really spoke to me.
“fags and artist types” – missing a comma.
The bit of dialogue you have with the hairdresser should be in proper dialogue format.
“giving good hair” hilarious.
“kamikaze pilots without parachutes” – I was under the impression that all kamikazis were without parachutes. Makes me stop at this sentence too long.
I think describing the new do was a good change. I didn’t see anything in the first version, now I do.
“fragmented like a Picasso painting” – my favorite image among the vast impressive images to choose from.
Ending – perfect. I’m with you all the way. Tidy this up and get it published.
If you want to discuss anything I pointed out I will answer in the comments.
Marvin reviewed Version 2 -
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“giving good hair”—this is funny. very funny. nice.
M.
This is near-flawless to me. VAST improvement. I’m impressed and wowed. And, most of all, far-more satisfied. You’ve shown me the haircut.
The addition and fleshing out of the hair-cutting scene was crucial. I think you’ve plugged in, with skill and wit, what had been missing.
Too many lines to praise but here’s a couple:
“I found solace in the viscosity of the blue fluid.”—awesome
“Two hours later, “Blue Monday” by New Order carved in hieroglypics on my ear drums and I was reborn”—funny, imaginative.
in this version, you’ve suggested what the original hair looked like (bo derek braids) and you’ve shown me the chop-shop.
fantastic imagery, easily read, funny, sharp. no complaints at all.
where you take it from here is up to you. but i’m not too worried. i have mucho faith in your ability.
thanks, m. great read.
PenelopeMV reviewed Version 2 -
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I love this. Women all go through the “haircut”. It’s our coming of age tribal thing.I remember mine- I was also out of it and I thought the girl was holding a gun to my head. I got mine dyed blue:)I’m confused about the blue monday hieroglypic. Could you explain? I do like the voyage to take us on with the arrival of the baby book- the haircut rebellion and the final sweet slip of baby hair your mother saved. Great journey. Enjoyed it very much. Your writing is clear- easy to read and insightful. Deep.
Marvin reviewed Version 1 -
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Grettings, M. I too am an M.
The writing is fantastic. Great description, intelligent. You hold onto your hook until
“unaware this magic moment was in peril…”
Is that bad? Not at all. You build up a bit of curiosity in the meantime as well as throw out a laugh or two. Well done there.
And then we have the middle.
And then we have the end. I’ll comment on the end first.
Good, ending. Very good, actually. I liked it. Your descriptions throughout are wonderful. Examples:
“salty residue of a bourgeois, seaside upbringing still clinging to my split ends”—nice.
“I approached it with the guarded curiosity…”—this line is good. And funny.
Hair as history is a really interesting idea. You’ve got a great set-up here, M. I’m very curious.
But this is what bugged me a little. I could be wrong, but this is what I think:
The middle, while very well written, is lengthy exposition, with PLENTY of build-up, but no great pay-off. Your close nearly saves it, it’s so well written but I was still a bit unsatisfied. I’ll try to show you why.
“…unjustifiable to my parents. It was perfect.”—great line. Had me laughing. And then I thought to myself, “Ok, show me.” You didn’t show me the actual act of getting the haircut, (which you could have done and still kept the appearance hidden- show me scissors chopping, hair flying, girls screaming, music blaring!), and I was willing to live with that if you showed me the result here. but no. not yet.
“It was time for the reveal.”—I actually said, “C’mon already! Show me the haircut!”
But no. No show me. Mean woman.
You spend so much time building up the magic trick and then you never pull back the curtain. Give a little now and then. In the midst of the exposition, show me a little something, a little piece of action to keep me engaged. The writing is strong but you needn’t carry the whole weight of the story on that alone. Show me something. Give me some dialogue. Anything. I’ll stop now before I eat up all your credits. We can continue in the comments below or you can email me….thanks.
Moira_Fitzpatrick reviewed Version 1 -
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This is my first peer review. Ever. So you should take my review with a grain of salt. It probably isn’t going to be the most constructive critique you’ve ever received but I’m going to give it my best try!
I really enjoyed this piece. I read through several works and was hesitant to review anything because I had no idea what I was doing, but I appreciated this so much that I had to say something. I think you did a good job of pulling everything together. The transition from the baby book to the story of your adolescence was a smooth one. I enjoyed your word choice and over all tone. “But first, I sacrificed my long, virgin hair at the Temple of Fuck You.” – made me laugh out loud.
You might want to take a closer look at your grammar. There were a few mistakes I did manage to catch, although I freely admit grammar is not my strong suit. I am not an English major.
“Even as a small child I knew it was an assault on my femininity, I just didn’t know why.” Comma splice. Separate the two clauses by either a period or a semi colon.
“Wasn’t entirely sure her tear ducts still functioned.” I think you forgot the “I” at the beginning of the sentence. I couldn’t decide if you had forgotten it or intentionally left it out for stylistic purposes. If it’s the later I don’t think it really fits in with the way the rest of the piece is written and I would put it back in. But that’s just my personal opinion.
“Now, cradled in my palm like silken soap leaves was the only pure thing left of me.” I did have to read this sentence a couple of times to get the meaning correct (but once I did I really loved it). If you do some work with the commas it will be easier to understand. “Now, cradled in my palm like silken soap leaves, was the only pure thing left of me.”
“Every cell in my body had since been replaced……was tangible evidence of an undamaged me.” This was my favorite paragraph, especially the last sentence. I thought it was beautiful.
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