A bit of spontaneous writing where Christian (circa Road Closed, when he is 20 years old) talks about his hair and puberty (925 words):
Christian talks about his hair, puberty and jetting blood
What would you think if I told you I’m a redhead? Would you think I have a fiery temper? That I’m a passionate lover?
I’m pretty mellow most of the time. The rest of the time I’m usually asleep. As for being a passionate lover, I kiss like a St. Bernard. Yeah, it’s gross. Usually because I’ve been drinking. I’m the St. Bernard in that Bugs Bunny cartoon that helps himself to the keg around his neck.
Regarding other redhead myths, I’m also not a witch, and the question of whether or not I have a soul remains to be determined. I probably won’t be able to answer that one, at least not without scaring the crap out of you when I return from the spirit realm with a really convincing response.
Puberty arrived shortly after I turned 14 and a couple of things happened, as you probably know from that talk your mom and dad avoided having that you later heard on the street. The first was the growth spurt. I went from kid height to slightly taller than my father in what felt like a span of a few weeks. I swear I could actively hear my bones popping and stretching.
And the hair. Oh god, the hair. It was like I caught a hair grenade just as it exploded. Hair on my chest, hair down yonder–so much and so fast that I almost wanted to ask about it, wondering if it was normal. But who do you talk to about something that? A priest at confession, maybe, but my family didn’t go to church. Besides, it wasn’t a sin, it was just weird.
The facial hair was the biggest surprise. We’ve all seen those high school photos where the guys are sporting wispy My First Mustaches. They look ridiculous, all of them. I didn’t have one of those. I woke up one morning and had five o’ clock shadow, as if someone had pressed it onto the lower half of my face and neck while I slept. It was so thick it might have been applied with a paint brush. By the end of each day I had enough stubble to strike a match on. I hated it. Worst of all, while the rest of my hair was a brilliant red, the facial hair was jet black. I was two-tone. It looked ridiculous. I looked ridiculous.
I taught myself to shave by using my dad’s Gillette razor. He also had a straight razor I’d seen him use once or twice but the one time I picked it up I got the strongest, strangest premonition that involved me staggering around the bathroom, painting the room with the blood jetting from my neck. I cut myself plenty with the Gillette because I had no idea what I was doing, I was just desperate to get rid of the two-tone, because it was entirely too mock-worthy and as we all know, schoolkids are not kindly creatures.
After a particularly bad week of nicks that left my face and neck covered with dabs of toilet paper, I made a trip to the local pharmacy and furtively headed past the shelves of condoms and lubricants to the hair coloring section. I grabbed a box and for a moment considered lifting it. I have one of those YES I JUST COMMITTED A CRIME COME AND SEARCH ME faces, though, so I shuffled to the checkout at the back of the store to pay for the goods.
“Is that for your mother?” the checkout girl asked. She was about 18 but I didn’t recognize her. She was in high school, I was in middle school. We orbited in different galaxies.
I lifted my head, wondering why I didn’t think of that, and was about to proclaim, “Oh god yes! Of course it’s for my mother!” and then she really looked at me and I watched her eyes go from my (red) hair to my face to the box of hair color, back to my face, and then rather too quickly to the till to ring through the purchase.
Dammit.
The worst part is I made a complete botch-up of the dye job. I read the instructions, it didn’t matter. I was sober. Again, it made no difference. I had plenty of shadow but not really enough hair. My attempt left the bottom of my face looking diseased. I shaved off the stubble and scoured the dye that had stained through to the skin with some pumice soap my mom had but never used. It made me smell nice, but left my face looking raw and terrible.
The next day at school was the first time I got mocked for my looks. Of course.
I learned to accept my two-tone hair, but I never learned to like it. I shave religiously now–I say a prayer before each shave that goes something like, “Please God make all of my facial hair fall out and never come back” and then I quickly take it back because I’d probably lose my eyebrows and look like a freak. Also I use an electric razor. Much less nicking and clean-up is easier. For a time I took the shaver with me everywhere, like a companion, and I’d just spontaneously whip it out and make sure that five o’ clock shadow never got past 10 a.m.
I brought it with me to college but one day I forgot it at the apartment, couldn’t find it when I returned, and now I’m apparently growing a beard.
