Saturday, February 21, 2004

I try to tell her life would be easier if she were straight. She'd look better, she'd feel better. People would stop staring. I wouldn't have to spend all this time worrying about being seen with her. We could just go out, maybe flirt with some guys, feel good.

It's impossible to get it across to her. I show her pictures of how attractive straight can be. "See?" I say. "This is what's in now."

She just shrugs.

"I know what you're doing was popular for a while. Everyone was doing it. But that's over now, okay? Now it's cool to be straight. You can blend in."

"What if I don't want to blend in?" She says.

"That's all well in good for you," I say. "But what if I do? I didn't get to choose you, and I can't get rid of you now."

I take her for a walk one day, see if I can talk some sense into her. We walk by a group of young girls, thin and beautiful with long blond hair hanging down past their shoulders. It frames their faces perfectly and bounces slightly as they walk.

"Don't you want to be pretty, like them?" I say.

"Conformist slime." She rasps. "That's really how I want to look." There's just no reasoning with her.

We walk a while longer, past a tatoo shop, and out in front of it there's a young woman in her twenties, about, smoking. She's wearing bulky jeans that fringe at the end, a spiky belt, a stained T-shirt. On her arm there's a tatoo; I can only assume it's a woman's name. Her hair is cut super-short, like a boy's, except died a bright pink. She looks pissed off.

"See? If this keeps up, that's what's gonna happen." I tell her.

"I like the pink." She says.

"The color's not bad-- maybe for one day, sure. But what about fancy events, huh? Do you want to look like that for prom?"

"How can you even tell she's not straight herself?" She asks. "You can't tell." This is insane.

"I just said that's what would happen to you. You don't want walk around looking like a boy, do you?"

No answer.

"Maybe if you wouldn't hold me back all the time, you could see how beautiful I can be. I hate being held back." She says to me out of no where.

"Maybe if you'd just try being straight, I wouldn't have to tie you down the way I do. But you look like a clown! I should start wearing face paint and a big red nose because you look so out of place?"

"I just want to be who I am!" She shouts. "I'm not straight! I know you've tried, but you have to accept me for what I am. I'm not perfect, I'm just me!"

People tell me I could change her if I tried, but they don't know her. My hair has a mind of it's own.


My little homage to my utter inability to straighten my hair. Last time I got it cut, the lady blow-dried it straight for me, and told me how. I was successful just once.

That was a good day. But no more.

On with it.