She Stole What?

As he sat back in his chair, his feet squeaked against the cheap linoleum floor. A hair dryer was droning in the back, and when it stopped things suddenly felt too quiet, like when you're reading a book and suddenly realize it's stopped raining. The customers were making small talk with the stylists, and every once in a while the bells tied to the door would ring with the entrance of another customer. The demographic of this establishment was pretty specific- middle-aged women, various ethnicities ranging from Hispanic to Russian to Middle Eastern, anything but white. His mother was sitting in a chair 30 feet from him, and she kept glancing at him and making funny faces to keep him occupied. He had driven her here, but not because she couldn't drive or because it was a bad part of town; he had wanted to get outside on this 90 degree day. He only ever had feel-good or feel-bad days, never anything in the middle, but luckily today was a feel-good day. He leaned back in his chair, and let his mind wander.

The bells on the door rang again, and he turned around to see who had entered. She was a tall white woman who looked like she could have been an upper-middle class soccer mom, but at one point made a bad decision (the wrong marriage, the wrong house, the wrong drug) and was now just living a life of regret. She had unkempt hair, bland clothes from the wrong decade, and too many wrinkles for her age. But, she looked like someone who had accepted her fate, and with that sort of confidence she sat down in a chair and asked for highlights. The salon went back to work, but things weren't working right. It was as if one of the cylinders that kept this machine running wasn't firing.

About 20 minutes later she rose from her seat, the tin foil still in her hair and protective bib still around her body, and walked towards the door. She mumbled something about needing her purse, and said that she would be right back. Not 5 steps outside the door, she burst full speed across the parking lot, jumped into her Honda Civic, and sped away.

The patrons inside sat still, all looking at the fading speck that was slowly driving away into the distance. Nobody dared to move or say anything; they all stared in silence. Slowly, one stylist began to cut again. Another turned on her hair dryer, and went back to work. They had witnessed something, but couldn't quite figure out what. Although a police officer might just say it was a robbery, it felt like so much more to them. They all silently wondered what would drive someone to steal a haircut and highlights.

The Power of Music

The notes invade your body, converging on your brain and controlling your body like a drug. You lose control as your brain stops processing the things around you. Slowly, all other emotion is numbed, and the music begins to warm up it up, chipping at your heart like it's made of marble until it leaves a statue of itself behind. Watch a person in the midst of listening to a great song, especially if they have headphones on- the music takes over, and at that very moment nothing else in their life matters. It brings out the rawest of emotion in us; it can make us laugh or cry, celebrate or mourn, rejoice or reflect.

Sometimes, I just pray that my playlist won't end.

Home

He walked across the green tennis courts, dodging the errant balls that were flying everywhere. He sat down on the other side, with the cold wind to his back, and waited for Ms. F to finish teaching a girl how to hit a backhand shot. As he waited, he noticed the ice that was still stubbornly holding on along the fence, refusing to melt despite the 50 degree weather.

She sat down next to him, and he fumbled for a pen and some paper. He was interviewing her about the South, and the misconception of Southerners in the north. She adjusted her wild red hair, and began talking about life in the South. She described having a garden, baking for others, saying "sir" and "ma'am," and inviting her students over for dinner before finals. She told stories of colleagues in the north who talked as if they wanted to "reeducate" her, and teach her the "proper way" to live. The more she talked, the more he was reminded of home. Images of his mother working in the garden, baking a cake for his father, and making the family's favorite meal jumped into his head. He remembered one of the last conversations he had had with her face to face before coming back to school, when she talked about women back in India who saw the life she had now, and tried to force her to live the way they did. It was that single aspect of life there that told them that they would never move back. He remembered her hug at the airport, and how she had changed from very seriously telling him to maintain his grades to telling him to enjoy himself and have a good term.

Although it had been four years since he had first gone away to school, and he went back home every two to three months, he suddenly realized that the homesickness never really went away. But, for a moment at that tennis court, Ms. F had brought him home.

Tired Mumblings of Class

He was tired, and couldn't imagine making it through one more period. To avoid falling asleep, he had taken to pinching himself a few times a minute, and watching the clock inch towards the bell. He didn't understand the class, but at least he had expected that. The rest was what made this room into Hell itself, the reading in front of him laughing like Satan. He felt like Athena was about to spring out of his head, so he popped two Advil and went back to pinching himself. The sentences in his mind were concise and blocky, eager to get to the next idea as soon as possible.

There was a smiling Asian girl in front of him, and she disgusted him. How could she hold that smile for so long? She was nodding every time the teacher snuck in a period into the lecture, and it ticked him off. She looked like she had held that smile for the past four years, hiding from something that she felt the people around her would never understand. He wasn't sure if her emotional depth was what impressed him, or if it was just the strength of her face muscles.