To Look Nice (Part 2)

I am not aware of the time it took for my hair to be ready. If ready is what we call hair staying in place, but willing to go somewhere. Like a child being obliged to stay inside on a sunny day. Something that requires a lot of devotion and determination. And I never thought my hair wanted to go anywhere.

I will not ever fix my hair again. I say t o myself; an indirect favour. Uncle’s wedding and you’re done. There are signs, that my head start hurting at any moment, but I pray. For what is a head ache wedding? I think optimistically as I have done so little times in my past life. The hair is better with the dress, and it won’t get frizzy.

I stand up, and so I am directed to a nearby table. I look at the mirrors as I walk, and I laugh silently and miserably about the combination between my too-sophisticated hair and last-minute pre-marriage sweat suit.

I bit my nails and so I’m ashamed as soon as another lady grabs my hands coldly and gingerly. She has highlights, unlike the first one, as it much taller. I feel her hand firm against mine. Too much ladies, and all of them are the same. What should I care about them? They work here and that’s what they do. I wonder, if they believe for them to be living monotonous lives. I wonder if, maybe, any one of them would like to, go to space someday or something. Then again, I live a monotonous live as well, and this marriage is an exception. I don’t even want to go to space.

I think of some made-up story to tell her about my nails, but it is all too fast, unlike my slow mind. She looks kind of disappointed and I feel left-out; I would’ve thought for her to already be used to nervous nail-eater teenagers. But apparently I’m one in a million.

Yes, I bite them, I add. I don’t eat them. No, I didn’t want to be that much different. There are much delights to eat and enjoy in life, compared to those. Then again, why do I bite them?

There is a box filled with utensils right there in the table, and so there is not much space. I am way to warm, but notice sadly how is it that I can’t take of my jacket. The back of my head feels as if I had just banged against one of the mirrors or something. The box so next to me is filled with things and for some I couldn’t find a logical reasons why they were there in the first place. Like some of them were just too big to do something to my nails.

I sarcastically call a silent prayer, as I scan the so much colours and possibilities of nail polish. I pray for some people; who would ever use that one, or that one?, I ask myself, and contradict myself again: sometimes people are just different from others. Some people, and most, like to keep themselves pretty and attractive. Unlike you, who would rather have frizzy hair to not feel and exaggerated pain.

It seemed as if the place wanted to please all people very much. Other than the millions of colours and polishes, there were cart-chairs for the little kids, and a wannabe T.V. The place is small, and long. It was the first time I’ve ever been in it, but my mother had said it was okay. There are no windows, expect for that one just meters away from the busy street, filled with buses and much noise. They people, too distracted in their cells, or heads to notice the place. What am I doing here?

The lady gives me much time to think and feel even miserable, and my nails look the same, and I don’t know if that’s bad or good. Seemed like a waste of time. But I am done. I can’t touch anything, and so I stand and walk around and my hands are in a position that makes me look like a notorious duck. My mom is still fixing her hair. She looks at me and smiles. She was being honest. The problem is that mothers believe their children to be so lovely, not matter how truly ugly they are. I just needed to ask more people. The monotonous ladies, they’d say yes for the money, and my sister…she was just smaller.

So I smile back, and head to the entrance, to sit near my sister and try to watch T.V. As soon as I turn back, my mom calls me a bit excited. Like if she had forgotten something, or had just realized something very funny about me. My hair?

She has forgotten of something indeed. Not that I would care.

“Wait! Waxing might be necessary, too.”

I didn’t know words could hurt as much, and I am even too afraid to cry.

I am a chicken, I admit. I wonder whether this admittance and truthfulness might change my mom’s mind. But it’s most improvable. After all, it is my uncle, her brother. His marriage. To be CHICKEN, it wasn’t an option.

This time I must walk all they way towards the end. I smell the boiling mixture, of sticky bad-prepared too-dark honey. I sigh. For my uncle.