That’s when I allow foolishness to set in. Blanche’s words, even her made-up ones, have too much power over me. Blanche does, in general. Sure, I’m doing this house stuff for us, Roy and me, but part of me also wants to clean this house up nice and good to stick it to my best friend for razzing me ’bout wanting the “American Dream.”
I lean back on my heels, an idea coming to me, and push to my feet—leaving my brush, bucket, and mess behind—and hurry past the library to my ma’s house. Straight I go to the washroom, not allowing myself time to think further.
The coldness of the metal shears gives me pause, but I refocus, pulling my hair into a low ponytail. And I cut. I scrunch my face, squeezing the blades, again and again, ’til the last blonde curl drops to the floor.
In the mirror, a defiant girl with straight hair to her jawline peers back. I press my hands against my outer thighs, stopping myself from tugging on the ends of each strand. Being self-conscious would defeat the purpose. Bobbing one’s hair is usually an assertion of independence against older folk—the ones who say girls should be in long dresses and pinned hair.
My bob is for Blanche; each cut helps ease some of my resentment, as if I’m taking back control from her. Really, my bob is for me. So is my choice of attire. If I’m going to dress like a flapper, I want to be the one doing it. I ain’t Blanche’s doll. I slit the neckline of my pantsuit deeper and steal sequins from Blanche’s headband she left at my house. Using my ma’s old, beat-up sewing kit, I stitch each sparkle along the hemline. After I stain my lips red, noisily popping ’em, I’m ready for Doc’s.
Soon after, Big Bertha’s rumbling starts quiet, growing ’til I know Blanche is outside. I take a steadying breath before scurrying to the front door, nearly barreling into my sister.
“Lynny,” she screeches. “What did you do to your hair?”
I should ask her what she’s doing here and not at her friend Sally’s, but I stand here like I’ve never before heard the English language.
Little Billie’s eyes narrow. “And that don’t look like anything you’ve ever worn to the diner before.”
“I, um,” I stutter.
“You ain’t going to the diner, are you?” she asks, hand on her hip.
Feeling like our roles have reversed and I’m the younger one, I simply shake my head.
Little Billie’s eyes grow larger. “Can I come, Lynny? We can cut my hair, too.”
And I laugh. For the first time all week, I feel lighter. Pulling my sister against me, I kiss the side of her head. “You don’t even know where I’m headed.”
“Don’t matter. I’ll go anywhere. You’ve been gone so much lately.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But you can’t come with me. You’re a bit too young.”
She squirms, creating distance to see me better, slightly worried this time. “Would it make Ma mad to know where you’re going, dressed like that?”
“Probably. So let’s keep this our little secret, like that time you broke Ma’s heirloom china and I said Duke Dog did it.”
“Okay,” she whispers, putting her head back down and mumbling into me, “’cause something is wrong with Ma. She’s always tired, but she’s extra tired, like something ain’t right.”
I think of last night and how Ma struggled to get out of her chair, how she had bags under her eyes, the way she seemed distracted, sad. And suddenly that lightness Little Billie brought me only a moment ago is gone, replaced by this gnawing feeling that my sister is right and that something could be wrong with our ma. Maybe she’s worrying ’bout our financial situation more than she’s let on. She has been working herself nonstop.
I kiss the side of Billie’s head again, pressing my lips against her hair longer than normal to comfort us both, and whisper back, “Everything will be okay, but I got to go. Did you eat at Sally’s?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Buster will be home soon.”
I slip outside before my brain can catch up and feel bad for leaving Billie alone, before I can scrutinize what Billie said, twice, ’bout our ma looking different.
The late sun blinds me and I cup my hand over my eyes. Like myself, Blanche is already dressed, her bright red dress and feather popping out from Big Bertha.
“There you are!” Blanche calls over Big Bertha’s idle purr. “I was just ’bout to beep and—” She tilts her head, mouth hanging open. “Your hair…”
My little sister caught me so off guard that I forgot to strut out of the house confidently, ruining my big ta-da.
Blanche holds up her hand, and I add some pep to my step. “You are not getting in Big Bertha ’til you explain to me what you did to your hair.”
I bounce the ends of my new bob against my palm. “Oh, just something new I thought I’d try out.”
“Are you on the rag, Bonnelyn? All week you’ve been a killjoy like it’s your time of the month.” Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“That is none of your beeswax.”
“You spend all day working at that house,” she continues, ignoring me. “Then you’re all doom and gloom at Doc’s. Now you go and do this? I reckon blood loss is making you screwy.”
I overlook her grossness. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of cutting your hair first,” I say.
Her head whips toward me. “Oh, trust me, honey. Blanche has no reason to be jealous of you.”
But we both know, this one time, she is. I smugly crease my forehead, begging her to deny it again.
“Wipe that look off your face, Bonnelyn. And stop blaming me for everything. I know you think all your angst ’bout the bootlegging and Roy and your stubbed toe is all my fault.”
“What? I haven’t stubbed my toe.”
“Yet,” she says. “But you probably will, and the blame will somehow be on me. Admit it, you don’t hate Doc’s. And that’s why you’re drowning in that angst. You actually like it. You enjoy it there.”
“No.” The tone of my response comes out a bit too defensive. Hearing her say it makes my rant seem even more foolish.
She rolls her eyes. “Phonus balonus. Forget your stubbed toe; next you’re going to blame me for defiling your innocent hair.”
“I didn’t stub … I happen to like my hair. A lot.”
She releases her death grip on Big Bertha’s wheel. She inhales, exhales. Finally, Blanche says, “It does look nice. Great, even.”
“Really?” I say, hating that her approval melts some of my resentment.
“Of course. Now strut that too-skinny butt of yours inside the house,” Blanche continues, “and don’t come back without scissors.” She checks her lipstick in the rearview mirror. “I can’t have you stealing the show without me.”
She smiles, and somehow Blanche has demanded her way back into my good graces, the same way she always does.
Fortunately, I’m able to sneak in and out of the house without seeing Billie. Blanche sits perfectly still, for once keeping her mouth closed, while I bob her hair, leaving blonde strands right there on Cemetery Road.