Tangled
Tangled
By Annie.
I’m seventeen years old today but I don’t know how sixteen is different from seventeen. And then seventeen turns into eighteen and nineteen and twenty, but I don’t like thinking that far ahead. “What is an age but a number?” My mother says to me. She is combing my waist length hair. Sometimes I feel like my hair is weighing me down when I walk. But today it comforts me; I like the smoothness of it and I can smell the lingering scent of green apple shampoo in my hair. I am old enough to be combing my own hair, but I let my mother do this ritual. It comforts her when she’s holding the comb and smoothing out the tangles.
When she tugs gently at my hair, I look at my reflection in the mirror. I see the scratch on my cheek, a zit blooming on my forehead, the roundness of my face and the shadows under my eyes. I see a mess of imperfections. Today is my birthday and I am seventeen. My mother doesn’t believe in birthdays, only that I am still her baby, her only child that was inside her. She has a hard time letting me go out. I hate it when she grumbles about weekend nights with my best friends. I want to go to the movies and not have that nagging worry in the back of my mind. I always worry about her, because she holds her loneliness too close inside. Ever since my father left two years ago, she’s told me that all we have is each other. That you shouldn’t trust buys, that the outside world is dangerous. She likes me here with her, but I feel like I am crumbling. My father didn’t take much with him, just a suitcase, a few books and his watch. I haven’t talked to him since.
She doesn’t have to worry; I am too shy to talk to boys. I’d rather take pictures with my camera; cracks on the sidewalk and flags for sale that are strung up on a red fence. I am the camera toting, hair to my waist girl at school. The shy girl, that hides behind her hair. I sigh.
“A hundred strokes,” my mother says. That means she’s done. My hair is slippery smooth and free of tangles for now.
“Can I go over to Laura’s house?” I ask. Laura is my best friend ever since we were five. “It’s my ---“ and I catch myself, realizing is wrong word to mention to her. But it’s too late. Even though I don’t say the word, she hears it. My mother hates birthdays. When I was seven I wanted a party, complete with a petting zoo and pointy party hats. I remember wanting to rip open presents and play with my friends all afternoon. The odd thing is I think she only hates celebrating my birthday parties.
“Why do you have to keep growing up?” she asks.
“Why do you hate my birthday so much, mom?” I say. She shakes her head. I can tell she is shutting away from me. Whatever. I am tired of tiptoeing around her, trying to be the quiet girl. More than ever, I feel that I am trying to jump over the cracks on the sidewalks; I used to love to do that when I walked to school.
“Mom, I am going to Laura’s and we’re having a birthday party for the both of us.” It’s funny how my best friend was born on the same day as I was. She’s still not speaking to me. I realize am hurting her but she is hurting me too. She is holding me too close and I am growing. I occupy space in so many ways.
It’s cold outside, in my hurry I forget to wear a jacket. It will be summer soon and I think of cutting the tangles from my hair, so I can swim in the ocean and not have my hair come undone. I comb my fingers through the heavy mass. Along the way to Laura’s house, I realize I am going to get a haircut tomorrow.