reach the optician, she pulls me along row after row of attractive frames, grabbing a pair now and then and handing them to me to try on. But my eyes have gotten so bad that I can’t really tell what any of them look like. I can only gage it by Liz’s reaction, which is anywhere from excited to enthralled.
The doctor is an Asian woman with a thick bun who smells like Chanel. She’s gentle and patient, and doesn’t scold me too much for waiting so long to update my prescription.
“These kinds of things can get very expensive for a family,” she says kindly. “I’m sure your parents were doing their best with what they had.”
I think about the way my father would hiss at me whenever I asked him for money, even if it was just five dollars for a school field trip. His philosophy was that kids existed for years working in factories and in the fields. Since child labor is now outlawed in this country, he felt that children didn’t contribute a thing to the world. And if he was going to give me a cent, I was sure as hell going to earn it. But I didn’t tell the doctor about my father. No one knows about him or my mother. They’re ghosts that no one can see but me, and I am forever haunted by them.
When I finally get my contact lenses, I can hardly believe it’s real. The world comes into crisp focus, filled with the details I’ve been missing for years. I gaze around the office in wonder, pointing out pictures on the walls and the people milling about in the mall beyond the front doors. Liz laughs and hugs me.
“Welcome back to the world of the seeing!”
I decide to splurge on a pair of new glasses as well. I settle on a rimless pair that are feminine and classy. Liz is elated.
“I can see your face!” she exclaims, jumping up and down like a little kid. “My God! I never realized how sexy your lips are! You look like Angelina Jolie!”
I laugh in amazement. It’s my face. And it’s actually pretty.
Next, Liz drags me downstairs to a salon where we sit in the waiting chairs flipping through hairstyle magazines. Liz searches for pictures of women who have hair like mine, wavy and thick. Each time she points out a picture I stare at it as if it were part of some secret society of women who know how to work it. How am I ever going to become one of them?
The hair stylist is a stocky gay guy named Francis who has a short buzz cut. When he wraps the smock around me and studies my hair, he clicks his tongue with disdain. “Sweetie, what the fuck? Are you Sleeping Beauty or something? Snoozing for twenty years while your hair grows into waist-length split ends?”
I flush with embarrassment. *Who do you think you’re kidding?* my mother’s voice chides inside my head. *You’re not fooling anyone! There are the haves and the have-nots, and you will never have anything nice!* Thankfully, Liz chimes in as well.
“What was she doing? Putting herself through college without a bit of help from anyone, is what. Not everyone gets to spend their time at fraternity mixers and rock concerts, you know. Some people are too busy busting their asses.”
I didn’t even know Liz was aware of that part of my life. Travis must really like her. The stylist tilts his head to the side and looks at me in the mirror, as if seeing me in a new light.
“Well, you go, girl!” he shouts, suddenly inspired. “Let’s give you the style of the century! What are you thinking?”
Liz chimes in again. “I’m thinking just past the shoulders, layered, framing the face kind of thing?”
“Hell, yeah!”
The stylist chatters nonstop as he cuts, but my thoughts are miles away. I watch, speechless, as huge swaths of hair fall to the ground, piling up all around us. I watch it in a daze. That hair was on my head when my mother kicked me out of the car in the desert, five miles from home, and made me walk through the summer heat. It was there the night they got drunk and my mother
The doctor is an Asian woman with a thick bun who smells like Chanel. She’s gentle and patient, and doesn’t scold me too much for waiting so long to update my prescription.
“These kinds of things can get very expensive for a family,” she says kindly. “I’m sure your parents were doing their best with what they had.”
I think about the way my father would hiss at me whenever I asked him for money, even if it was just five dollars for a school field trip. His philosophy was that kids existed for years working in factories and in the fields. Since child labor is now outlawed in this country, he felt that children didn’t contribute a thing to the world. And if he was going to give me a cent, I was sure as hell going to earn it. But I didn’t tell the doctor about my father. No one knows about him or my mother. They’re ghosts that no one can see but me, and I am forever haunted by them.
When I finally get my contact lenses, I can hardly believe it’s real. The world comes into crisp focus, filled with the details I’ve been missing for years. I gaze around the office in wonder, pointing out pictures on the walls and the people milling about in the mall beyond the front doors. Liz laughs and hugs me.
“Welcome back to the world of the seeing!”
I decide to splurge on a pair of new glasses as well. I settle on a rimless pair that are feminine and classy. Liz is elated.
“I can see your face!” she exclaims, jumping up and down like a little kid. “My God! I never realized how sexy your lips are! You look like Angelina Jolie!”
I laugh in amazement. It’s my face. And it’s actually pretty.
Next, Liz drags me downstairs to a salon where we sit in the waiting chairs flipping through hairstyle magazines. Liz searches for pictures of women who have hair like mine, wavy and thick. Each time she points out a picture I stare at it as if it were part of some secret society of women who know how to work it. How am I ever going to become one of them?
The hair stylist is a stocky gay guy named Francis who has a short buzz cut. When he wraps the smock around me and studies my hair, he clicks his tongue with disdain. “Sweetie, what the fuck? Are you Sleeping Beauty or something? Snoozing for twenty years while your hair grows into waist-length split ends?”
I flush with embarrassment. *Who do you think you’re kidding?* my mother’s voice chides inside my head. *You’re not fooling anyone! There are the haves and the have-nots, and you will never have anything nice!* Thankfully, Liz chimes in as well.
“What was she doing? Putting herself through college without a bit of help from anyone, is what. Not everyone gets to spend their time at fraternity mixers and rock concerts, you know. Some people are too busy busting their asses.”
I didn’t even know Liz was aware of that part of my life. Travis must really like her. The stylist tilts his head to the side and looks at me in the mirror, as if seeing me in a new light.
“Well, you go, girl!” he shouts, suddenly inspired. “Let’s give you the style of the century! What are you thinking?”
Liz chimes in again. “I’m thinking just past the shoulders, layered, framing the face kind of thing?”
“Hell, yeah!”
The stylist chatters nonstop as he cuts, but my thoughts are miles away. I watch, speechless, as huge swaths of hair fall to the ground, piling up all around us. I watch it in a daze. That hair was on my head when my mother kicked me out of the car in the desert, five miles from home, and made me walk through the summer heat. It was there the night they got drunk and my mother
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