Lather, Rinse, Repeat
Short Story
by Cori Nicole Smith
It's always easiest to braid my hair when it's still wet. Of course, it's
way to short to stay in a braid if it's not wet; so, that's obviously the only way to braid it.
I love the way the sloppy strands run between my fingers. The pieces squeal as I pull them in and out
of the braid. I always try to braid my hair when I take a bath. It reminds me of my childhood. Braiding my hair, I mean. Everyone always wanted to braid my hair when I was a little girl. I think that's why they wanted me around: to remind them of their own childhoods. They knew it then, and I know it all to well now. The first twenty years of your life, you spend trying to grow up. The rest of your life is spent trying to regain what you lost. So I braid my hair and remember.
The phone rang twice while I was in the tub. The first time, it was a wrong number. The
second time, I didn't answer it. It's so hard to take a bath, and read a book, and answer all the wrong numbers, and braid your hair at the same time. So I just ignored it and continued with my
other tasks.
Snow was beginning to drift outside as it got deeper and the wind blew harder. Flakes flecked the window making opaque pictures on the transparent background. No one was outside playing in it where I could see. The women were all at home braiding their daughters' hair as I braided my own. The snow fell harder. The bubbles were beginning to fade. Only the corners held any by this point. I wiped the residue of soap bubbles from my thighs and rinsed the soap in the shower. All the bubbles went down the drain and my hair was sticking out, dripping down my arms and back, but the snow remained.
The phone rang again, but I ignored it. The answering machine stopped halfway through as the caller decided not to leave a message after the beep. Upon drying, I wrapped up in my silky Victoria's Secret bathrobe for nobody and went to the kitchen to microwave dinner. I tripped over my book in my dark bedroom, and turned on a light to see what I was cursing. When I leaned over to pick up the book, my hair fell out of the towel. Regaining the towel and the book, I replaced them both where they belonged and limped to the
kitchen.
My dinner, grilled cheese and tomato soup, took too long to make. I toasted the bread and put cheese between the slices. Then I put my sandwich and half a can of tomato soup that I had been mixing with milk in a soup mug while I waited for the bread to toast in the microwave. I zapped them. The fake grilled cheese was disgusting but made a nice addition to the lukewarm lumpy canned soup.
Sitting down at the kitchen table, I ate my repast and listened to the sound of the wind outside. Streetlights were coming on and giving an odd iridescence to the icy world below. I drank the soup and dipped my sandwich in it. Looking out the window and quieting my hunger, I shook my hair loose from the towel and scratched at some dried soap on my elbow. That night, I found out exactly what it meant to eat soup alone.
Lather, Rinse, Repeat© Copyright 2003 Cori Nicole Smith, printed with permission.
