Vintage Memories

Chapter Eleven "Boxed Blond and Bombshells"

(A/N: Warning. Homophobic language.)

L'Oréal-Henné Hair Dye.
For Natural Coloring Of The Hair.
Guaranteed Absolutely Harmless!
Light Blonde Shade.

The two adolescent boys stared at the box in Anthony's hand.

"Won't be that hard to figure out," Anthony dismissed.

The soon-to-be blond walked over to the motel bathroom sink under the alcove. He tore into the box and unloaded the contents, discarding the mutilated cardboard package to the basket-weave oak flooring.

Allen wasn't convinced. He stayed back by the window at the far wall, watching this unfold as one would an unstoppable motor wreck. This seemed like a horrible idea, one of many to add to Anthony's Rolodex of past regrets. Through late childhood to mid-adolescence, he had gotten to know his out-of-town friend well during brief, but frequent visits; his tics, likes and dislikes. Anthony Russo was a live wire, lighting up every room he walked into and sometimes burning too brightly, setting something ablaze. He was shamelessly impulsive. Half of the ideas Anthony acted on, he felt sorry for after. This one seemed no different.

Allen heard through the grapevine that only certain lowbrow sorts— trollops and swindlers, to name a few —stooped to the level of dying their hair, and for good reason. Only they, the ragtag and bobtail, were foolish enough to put that pungent chemical waste on their hair. In the year 1936, this chemical wizardry hadn't even passed three decades since its inception. Who knew the dangers that still lay undiscovered for two novice boys to unwittingly stumble upon?

All the worry, however, became extraneous upon seeing the excitement that illuminated Anthony's fair face. Allen couldn't tell him no; he found it harder to do so lately. God forbid he be the reason the dazzling flames within those eyes extinguished. So, upon Anthony's insistence, Allen rented a motel room deep in old Storyville for them to figure out how to dye his hair.

He watched Anthony for a silent beat, the chipper New Yorker bouncing between a cursory glance at the instructions pamphlet and mixing two mystery ingredients. A certain amalgamation churned in Allen as well, one of disquiet and curiosity.

"I cannot, for the life of me, make heads or tails of this," Allen said, fiddling with the window blind's tassel. "What's wrong with your hair the way it is?"

"I... Uh... nothing I guess, but..." Anthony looked up into the bathroom mirror, carding his fingers through his wavy, brown-black locks. Allen caught the fleeting, displeased purse of Anthony's lips in the reflection.

"I don't really wanna look like Pops, or my brother... The bigger I'm gettin', the more I'm looking like 'em."

All at once, Allen took his friend's caper a bit more seriously, and stopped fiddling with the blinds. There had always been a familial tension that he didn't dare ask about. It loomed behind Anthony like a wraith, weighing him down when silence prevailed. Sometimes, when Anthony talked nonstop it seemed less out of an eagerness to share and more like a war against the quiet. And yet, he never divulged why. In time, he hoped that Anthony would tell. But until then, if lifting the color of his hair would in turn lift that dismal mass from his shoulders, so be it.

Allen sighed, reaching into the paper bag on the motel bed and pulling out the box of disposable gloves. Anthony traipsed over, his eyes bouncing about, seeming to account for every detail of the room: the muted yellow wallpaper with sprigs of pink and white blossoms; the uplight chandelier with its four frosted-glass bowls; the modest full-sized bed, its puce bedspread with a trailing vine pattern made up with meticulous care; and the oval standalone mirror beside it, balanced on its oak stand with a slight upturned lean. Not until after he'd done it, had Allen realized he did it also.