Write about hair – either yours or a character you
work on.
Marusya never liked her hair, or as she often would
say, she hated it. Looking from a distance, you’re now probably as surprised as
Marusya was when she grew up and looked back at herself, how much the word “hate”
circulated between the girls of her age.
“How is school?”
“I hate school.”
“Isn’t math fun?”
“I hate math.”
“Do you like your classmates?”
“Hate ‘em.”
“Oh such a sweet
dress!”
“I hate it.”
Marusya did not start putting this thought together
until one day one of her classmates said that another of her classmates said that
she hated Marusya.
“What?! She what
me?!”
“That’s what she said. ‘I just hate Marusya,’ she
said.”
Marusya stopped breathing for a moment, feeling as though her
face was burning – she always blushed easily. Never before had anyone told her that
they hated her or knew someone who hated her. Hating school was one thing. It
wasn’t personal. School was just some cold, official, faceless institution. Just a
gray building with a bunch of rooms and corridors painted in a toxic green
color (why schools and hospitals always pick such an unpleasant color?). All right, hating
classmates was not especially a nice thing to say, but it also wasn’t personal,
it was just all of them together, not each of them individually. “All” means a
mass, a blob, it means nothing. But how on earth someone could say “I hate her,
Marusya”?
Now, if Marusya was totally honest, she would tell
that friend that she also hated that other girl. She even wrote it in her diary
which she would never, ever want to show to anyone. But she did not say it,
because that’s what diaries are for – to write any thought that entered
your mind, and it did not have to be nice. Marusya knew her thoughts were not always nice, and she would never want to pretend that they were. But one thing
was to think that thought and even write it down in your diary, and quite
another to say it out loud to someone. To say it out loud almost felt like
doing something not nice to that person. Or maybe wishing that you were doing
something not nice to that person. And Marusya did not want to do something not
nice to anyone, no matter what she’d write in her diary.
From that day on, Marusya was quite sure that it was
not okay to hate anyone and was not sure it was okay to hate anything either.
But she reserved her right to hate one thing – her own hair. Her hair was long
and curly and tangled to the point when it was a nightmare to brush it. Grown-ups
often would stop and tell her how pretty her hair was, but only grown-ups. Kids
were teasing her as long as she could remember. As if having curly unmanageable
hair that had a mind of its own was not enough to torcher Marusya, her hair was
also copper red color, which ran in the family. Matveika got lucky, Marusya
though. Yes, he got curls too, but his hair did not have to be long, and it was
not hard to brush short hair – not as hard as her long curls anyway. But he
also got a normal golden brown color that many kids have, with only a hint of
copper in the bright sun. No one would think of teasing Matveika for having a
hint of copper in his hair. People probably did not even notice that slight
change of his hair color on a bright sunny day, when Matveika got straight sun
rays on his head. Marusya got teased-at since childhood, when she’d ask her
parents not to bring her to day care early in the morning and just let her
stay at home which they couldn’t do of course since both of them were working, and
Matveika went to school. Only on very rare occasions would her mom take Marusya
to her work instead of day care – those were happy days. Mama’s students seemed
to like Marusya, and no one called her “ryzhaya” (*) or “clown” as kids in the day care did. When mama’s students or
grown-ups mentioned Marusya’s hair color, it always sounded like a compliment,
not as an insult. She noticed that some women colored their hair in red color
on purpose (something that blew her mind – why on earth anyone would want to be
red haired, she’d never understand that). She made a little peace with her hair
when she first read Pippi Longstocking. She was ten or something like that. For
a while, she felt as empowered as Pippi, as if she could pick up a horse or a
policeman with her arms. She’d imagine how one day she picked up the most
annoying boys from her school and throw them in the air, and how their faces
would get long and scared, and full of remorse, and how they’d land and
run as fast as they could, looking back at Marusya with fear and even respect.
The thought that she was somewhat similar to Pippi was comforting for the next
couple of years, but now at twelve Marusya started being annoyed with her hair
in a somewhat new light. She couldn’t say exactly what was going on, but
somehow with all the body changes she experienced lately, having bright copper
red hair became an issue again.
(*)
“ryzhaya” means red haired (about a female), and “ryzhyi” – red haired about a
male in Russian.
Everything is so intense at 12. Love, hate, joy, sorrow-hair! I hope Marusya groves to love her hair.
ReplyDeleteIt has always been SO hard for me to imagine that anyone would hate red hair. Since I was a kid, I found it fascinating and cool. I guess this proves it ... I'm an oddball. ;)
ReplyDelete