NO LONGER THERE

SHE & I

PROLOGUE

I looked at her.

Pathetic.

With those big pretty brown eyes, smooth mocha skin and high cheek bones. I watched her stand and gaze at her okay body, around her fancy house, at her handsome husband on the couch and beautiful daughter playing quietly at his feet.  He caught her staring. He blew a kiss and smiled. She blushed. 

Pathetic. 

She walked into her 'off limits' bathroom and closed the door. I waited. She flipped on the light just as the first tear led a funeral march down those high ass cheek bones. There would be more, there always was.

Pathetic.

I grew impatient. "Get this shit over with. "I yelled.

She ignored me and stood there.

Pathetic.

Her daughter's giggles echoed in the background.

"Babe, she took her first step."  Her handsome husband shouted down the hall.

"God dammit." I screamed. 

She stood there, saying nothing, missing everything. 

Pathetic.

She finally turned on the music. Louder than usual. Today, her only child reached a milestone as she cowered behind four walls.

Louder still, to drown the sounds of her pathetic heartbroken tears.

I blame her. She. Me.

Pathetic.

As she took her seat.  I reminded her. Shit was always her fault. Had been her whole life. This, no different.

She saw it. Ignored it. Now, I'm here. She's here and we're both pathetic.

I looked at her. Hating her. She reached up. I felt  it. That sharp pain. The body's alarm system. Stop. She kept going. It hurt like hell.

The sound of metal rubbing against it self.  A little blood.  Stop. She kept going...It hurt like hell.

Pathetic.

I looked at her. She refused to look at me. Not until it was done and only if by then she could still see.

I looked at her. For thirty minutes. She checked her phone. Thinking it was hours.

Pathetic.

She put three things on the counter in front her her.  A pair of scissors, a piece of her soul and her dignity.

Simply. Pathetic.

She sighed. Wiped the salty brine from her face. Closed her eyes.

She opened them. This time, she looked at me.

With those big pretty brown eyes, smooth mocha skin and high cheek bones. With her okay body, in her fancy house. With her handsome husband and beautiful daughter. She looked...at me.

With my patchy head. Smooth as her daughter's bottom. Discolored. Nappy peach fuzz above each ear and the back of our head.  One lone crowd of the beautiful locks we used to have. Holding on against all odds to our disappearing crown. She and I both laughed at the irony. There was no glory in this shit.

Pathetic.

She hated me. I knew it. Every time her handsome husband wanted to get close,  I flinched. No matter how many Youtube videos we watched. She couldn't always get that 'odor' out of the wigs. It was embarrassing.

Pathetic.

She stopped swimming.  Her beautiful daughter's swim lessons at the Y enjoyed by her mother. I wasn't getting in that water. What if it showed. So, we sat on the bench. Smiling. Taking Pictures. Shooting videos we would never be in.  And she hated me.

Pathetic.

We both envied women complaining about 'bad hair days', pony tails and  fresh cuts.  Color. Waves. Dry as a Brillo pad. Oily as fingers after a rack of ribs. It didn't matter. We no longer had it. We wanted it. They complained about it. 

Pathetic.

We miss salon days.

She misses her handsome husband's fingers running through her hair.

We despise hiding. We hate knowing what we had is gone.

Some say women like us are superficial. Not confident. Overly concerned with such a trivial thing.

It's not cancer.

If it were, at least, we would receive sympathy.

I'm angry. She's ashamed. We're battling one another. Give in. Embrace.

I look at her. With those big pretty brown eyes, smooth mocha skin and high cheek bones. With her okay body, in her fancy house. With her handsome husband and beautiful daughter. Sad, and confused because ...

who are we without our hair?