Bleaching Out I
“You don’t understand,” I say. “Those girls planned the highlights. They were being mean.”
“That’s because they’re not like you. And did you ever think your style is the problem? You seem to wear whatever is clean and whatever fits, barely. You would feel like a new person in Express.”
“Are you joking? Skinny jeans? No way.”
“What about the pants I bought you and that jersey you like so much. When you wear that, you look normal, honey. Do you prefer looking like you shop for your clothes in a dumpster?”
But I still won’t tell my Aunt Ally what happened at prom. She’ll think Mickey ditched me at the dance because he hated my hair. (And what I should do now is fix the hair and the clothes but not for the silly boy but for me to feel better.)
My aunt orders what sounds like enough Chinese food to feed an entire village in some far off land, the kind of place she will probably never set foot in.
“Maybe you’re an Abercrombie,” she says. “All those double and triple shirts would look good on you.”
“I hate you.”
“And I should have dragged you to the mall. We could get your hair done there.”
But I don’t care about the mall and I’d bet she wishes one of those detergent packs would magically find their way into the washing machine down the hall and clean the throw rug with glitter stains all over it.
A new catalog catches my aunt's eye; the outfit on the cover seems to draw her attention. She’s about to start flipping through it. I’m not sure what she likes. Is it the skinny suit jacket, the pleated shorts, or the silky looking short-sleeved shirt the model is wearing that has captured her so thoroughly? And I wonder how my mom would look wearing something elegant like that. “Do you think my dad remembers us?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says. She tosses the catalog aside as if it is covered in something sticky like peanut butter and jelly and then she says, “I don’t really know.”
I ask and keeps on asking in different ways until the take-out arrives whether it is okay to lie to make life better. And my aunt says, “Your dad did.” And then she tells me she is sorry and she is angry with my dad too.
“If Uncle Frank had been here he’d say, “You’re being flip, Ally. And he might just buy that ugly jacket from the catalog on the floor for you. And he’d tell you how you look amazing in it.” And then I pick the catalog up off of the floor and hold it up in front of my aunt. “Wait, the catalog on the floor isn’t Talbot’s, and if you get that jacket, you won't be totally Talbot’s anymore and with you it’s a kind of thing to get all your clothes from there the way some people only get their clothes by dumpster diving.”
And then it is as if my Uncle Frank lounges with us in the living room and he whispers in my aunt’s ear like he used to do. He talks to her about me and he says, “Why doesn’t she go back to being blonde?” And this Aunt Ally agrees with and she asks the question out loud.
“That’s because they’re not like you. And did you ever think your style is the problem? You seem to wear whatever is clean and whatever fits, barely. You would feel like a new person in Express.”
“Are you joking? Skinny jeans? No way.”
“What about the pants I bought you and that jersey you like so much. When you wear that, you look normal, honey. Do you prefer looking like you shop for your clothes in a dumpster?”
But I still won’t tell my Aunt Ally what happened at prom. She’ll think Mickey ditched me at the dance because he hated my hair. (And what I should do now is fix the hair and the clothes but not for the silly boy but for me to feel better.)
My aunt orders what sounds like enough Chinese food to feed an entire village in some far off land, the kind of place she will probably never set foot in.
“Maybe you’re an Abercrombie,” she says. “All those double and triple shirts would look good on you.”
“I hate you.”
“And I should have dragged you to the mall. We could get your hair done there.”
But I don’t care about the mall and I’d bet she wishes one of those detergent packs would magically find their way into the washing machine down the hall and clean the throw rug with glitter stains all over it.
A new catalog catches my aunt's eye; the outfit on the cover seems to draw her attention. She’s about to start flipping through it. I’m not sure what she likes. Is it the skinny suit jacket, the pleated shorts, or the silky looking short-sleeved shirt the model is wearing that has captured her so thoroughly? And I wonder how my mom would look wearing something elegant like that. “Do you think my dad remembers us?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says. She tosses the catalog aside as if it is covered in something sticky like peanut butter and jelly and then she says, “I don’t really know.”
I ask and keeps on asking in different ways until the take-out arrives whether it is okay to lie to make life better. And my aunt says, “Your dad did.” And then she tells me she is sorry and she is angry with my dad too.
“If Uncle Frank had been here he’d say, “You’re being flip, Ally. And he might just buy that ugly jacket from the catalog on the floor for you. And he’d tell you how you look amazing in it.” And then I pick the catalog up off of the floor and hold it up in front of my aunt. “Wait, the catalog on the floor isn’t Talbot’s, and if you get that jacket, you won't be totally Talbot’s anymore and with you it’s a kind of thing to get all your clothes from there the way some people only get their clothes by dumpster diving.”
And then it is as if my Uncle Frank lounges with us in the living room and he whispers in my aunt’s ear like he used to do. He talks to her about me and he says, “Why doesn’t she go back to being blonde?” And this Aunt Ally agrees with and she asks the question out loud.
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