So, I was on the bus the other day after a long shift in a hot kitchen making pizzas, burgers and the like. I sat down, feeling my muscles relax with almost exquisitely painful relief.
Then I realised, in my rush to catch the bus – they drop to hourly in the evenings – I’d not undone the work plait I affect under my hairnet. I rummaged a comb out of my backpack and pulled the scrunchie off the end, unravelling the braid.
My hair is long, thick, nicely wavy, flowing to below my hips. As I’m tugging out the surface knots, I hear a mum and daughter behind me.
‘Mummy, look at her hair!’
‘Mmm.’
‘No, mummy, look!’
‘Oh gosh! It’s long, isn’t it?’
I turn my head and half-smile at them – the little girl is a cutie: milk-pale skin, fiery red hair, those clear blue eyes that see into your soul. Mum is tired, beige and brunette – kid must get her looks from Dad.
They ask a couple of the usual questions – ‘How long did it take to grow?’, ‘How long to wash/ dry it?’ etc.
(15 years, half-an-hour, 2 hours, FYI.)
‘Would you like long hair like that?’ asks Mum.
‘Yeah.’ The child is still staring intensely.
‘Would you like her hair? Shall we rob it from her?’
‘Yeah.’
I smile awkwardly.
I’m hoping my stop comes up soon.
They laugh mirthlessly.
Little girl makes full eye contact, forms scissors with her fingers, says, ‘Snip, snip.’
Liz Milne is a Zimbabwe writer-of-all-sorts: articles, blogs, flash, short stories and long ones - even the occasional poem. She's currently trying for a PhD in Creative Writing and will come out of that experience stronger if it doesn't kill her first.
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