By Emily Hamm
The Case of the Blue Hair Dye
Is there nothing better to do,
Looking for a change?
Drink and dye your hair.
Before I went to sleep that night,
I didn’t think my hair would be blue.
I thought the day would be like any other,
Hair still the same.
It wasn’t until the following morning,
Waking up with the birds,
That I looked in the mirror,
Offended by the girl staring back at me.
…
The faded out highlights,
The brown roots folding in.
My face was drowned from the summer before,
Fall slowly creeping in.
Desperate.
A need to get rid of,
This damn hair.
In that instant, my mind was decided.
My body obeyed.
.
First, most importantly, we need to dye.
But where to buy?
A trip to Target, just like any other.
Scanning through the selection,
I don’t know which color.
Red, Purple, Orange, Pink.
A blue box calls to me,
By a woman grinning widely.
She encourages me,
Whispers, “This is the right decision.”
The day drags slowly,
Anticipation creeping.
The woman on the box,
Maintains eye contact from afar.
I gather my friends,
Important as always. We pour ourselves some liquid courage,
And read the directions.
These instructions are the bible,
Our newfound religion.
God is a woman.
Specifically, the woman on the front of the box.
Hair gets flipped back and forth,
Painted a dark tint.
Dye turns slick,
Hair becomes wet.
Now, we wait.
What to do with this empty time?
Explore, I suppose.
Towel draped across my shoulders,
We walk towards one of the colorless buildings.
Passing through the entrance,
Trying to find the person we are looking for.
Yet, we stumble upon him.
Waiting outside the door,
He approaches. Trying to make conversation,
He says how funny I am.
I assure him he is correct.
He asks if I am dyeing my hair.
I say no.
He asks how big my water bottle is,
I tell him it is average.
Struck by the alarm,
Screeching from my phone.
We leave the man standing at his door,
Time to transform.
Blue stains the white tub,
Hair falls out in clumps.
I remain unbothered.
Water runs blue, rinsing until it is clear once more.
The air turns my hair
From wet to dry.
Next step,
We straighten the blue hair,
Seeing the streaks of light and dark mixed together.
I sit in front of the mirror,
A new person,
The same person.
Just different.
I sit observing,
The blue matching my eyes.
My drunk adventures are coming to a close,
Terrible sober thoughts are now approaching.
I retreat to my room,
And discard the prophetic woman of the box
Thy will be done.
Tiredness settling in my eyes.
The bed calls to me.
I can hear the mirror speak,
Who do you think you’ll see tomorrow?
Mainah
Seafood.
Whoopie Pies.
Red Snappahs.
LL Bean.
Where is Stephen King’s house?
—
We see the winter,
Approaching eerily from the moment the first leaf falls.
Harsh storms bring mountains of snow.
Citizens in the south of Maine are able to contain their dread.
The wild men of the North, however,
Celebrate.
The Northerners worship the snow,
Each day wishing for more.
To retreat from their houses.
Snowmobiles are the only form of transport.
Neighbors in the North stop by at all hours of the day,
It’s 6 AM, I’ve been up since 4. You’ve been sleeping in? The whole day is gone.
They wait at the door for their morning ritual.
I’m going to the Dunkin Donuts there bud, get my mornin coffee.
These people are strange, different.
A cold exterior, matching the climate around them.
Hybrid of a brutish Boston accent mixed with something else entirely.
Flannel. Pit Vipers. Mullets.
Everywhere.
The North is not Canada,
Despite popular belief.
Northerners are the weird uncles of Maine.
The backbone of our nation.
Halloween Nights
Treats being passed around,
Coloring ensues.
A day spent in the classroom,
Swiftly making our way off the bus.
The walk home is endless,
Longer than usual.
Pumpkins sit idly upon the porch. The anticipation creeps in.
Streaks of yellow fill the sky,
Hints of orange peaking through.
An indication of the evening to come.
White hangs upon the door,
A jacket of sorts.
Attached, is a hat.
Slipping into the white outfit.
I fit perfectly.
Bought from a bag hung in a store.
Made for me.
We go to see her,
Lover of Horror.
Halloween Enthusiast.
The door opens,
A witch!
Yet, she is in disguise.
It was who I came to see,
Mimi.
Embracing in a strong hug,
Her hugs.
Specific, distinct, only a grandmother’s touch.
Trick
O Treat
R’s are hard to say when you are little.
We were little,
Gabby and I.
A chef,
Walking the streets,
Begging for processed candy from strangers.
Despite this outlandish act,
I feel safe holding,
Her hand.
Monsters, ghouls, demons.
Coming out to incite fear.
I am protected.
These streets are now empty,
As I am too old for these rituals.
Growing out of the hand holding.
Having to face the monsters alone.
Ghosts are lurking on this route,
Lingering by her house.
We used to visit every year.
The traditions have left,
As have I.
Receiving the annual card in the mail,
Happy Halloween!
Love, Mimi.
Maneater
Dark hair drapes down to my hips,
Blue eyes peer around the room, instictively.
Animalistic.
Tall. Confident.
I am fierce.
Intimidating.
Charming.
I would lure them in,
I’m always hungry,
Obviously.
Men are stupid,
Easy to hunt.
Minimal effort required for my preferred cuisine.
My palate wasn’t always so refined.
Carrots, potatoes, salami, sundried tomatoes?
Yuck! Blech! What was I thinking?
When I was younger, I thought,
“People are people.”
Yet, they are so different.
Men taste better.
Tonight I’m heading to the ice arena.
I sorted out my tupperware containers from the pantry,
Starting to meal plan for the week.
They had to replace the entire hockey team that season.
They weren’t going to make it to playoffs anyway.
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