Only Twenty-Five

by Jennifer McCoy Blaske

  “Dammit!” I picked up my brush and hurled it into my bedroom.

  Pudding leaped off the bed and ran down the hall in fright.

  “I hate you!” I screamed at the horrifying reflection in the mirror. “You’re disgusting! You’re ugly! Ugly! Ugly! Ugly!” I pounded my fist on the bathroom counter with each word, getting a perverse satisfaction from the increasing pain in my pinky. The reflection glared back at me which made me even angrier. “What did you do with me?! Where is the real me?!” I screamed, sticking my face as close to the mirror as I could without actually touching it. “I want her back! Did you hear me?” I was shrieking at this point. “Do you hear me? I said I want her back!”

  I—my essence—was being destroyed before my very eyes and I was helpless to stop it. I wanted something, anything, to suffer for what was happening to me.

  I stormed out of the bathroom like a crazed person, slamming the door behind me twice. I snatched a pillow off my bed and whacked it repeatedly against the mattress as hard as I could. The feeble impact just frustrated me even more. I wanted to smash things, break things. For a split second I thought about grabbing the lamp off my nightstand and hurling it against the wall. Fortunately, a tiny part of me remained level-headed enough to realize that all that would do is leave me with a huge mess and the cost of having to replace the lamp and fix the wall. I slammed the bedroom door twice. Then I kicked it . . . forgetting that I always kick off my shoes as soon as I get home from work.

  “Ow,” I whimpered as I crumpled to the floor, sobbing as I rocked back and forth.

  After a while Pudding decided it was safe to come out of hiding. He crawled into my lap.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do Pudding.” I cried as I stroked him. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  TWELVE

  Meg

  It was Saturday and Katie was coming to visit. I knew that seeing her was going to cheer me up. I spent the morning cleaning the apartment which was a nice way to get my mind off my hair problems.

  ***

  I met Katie during my junior year in college. I was doing laundry in the dorm one weekend and I thought I was all alone. I was singing Sweet Escape by Gwen Stefani as I moved my clothes to a dryer.

  When I turned around a short girl with glasses and red curly hair was setting a basket of clothes down on one of the washing machines. She smiled at me. I stopped singing and gave her an embarrassed grin.

  “You have a lot more fun doing laundry than I ever do,” she said with a smile as she started tossing her clothes into the machine.

  I gave an embarrassed little laugh and went back to stuffing my clothes in the dryer.

  “Ugh,” she muttered, staring at a handful of clothes in disgust. “I think I hate my roommate.”

  “Why?”

  “This.” She held up the clothes and shook them before throwing them on top of the washing machine next to hers. “She is such a slob. She’s always throwing her dirty clothes and towels all over the room. And I don’t just mean a shirt or something. I mean things like dirty underwear. It’s so gross.”

  “Ew. That is gross.” I was slightly amused that a total stranger was telling me this.

  “And now I’m finding her stuff mixed in with my laundry.” She jabbed at the offensive pile with her hand. “I don’t know if she flung it across the room and it just ended up in my basket or if she deliberately stuck it in there thinking she could trick me into washing her clothes.” She grabbed another handful of dirty laundry from her basket. “And look . . . here’s more! I bet she did stick these in here on purpose.” She whipped a neon-orange shirt down on top of the pile and let out an exasperated sigh as she put her hands on her hips. “Know anyone who needs a new roommate?”

  “I’m looking for one,” I said hesitantly. I didn’t want to sound too eager in case it was just a rhetorical question.

  Her face lit up. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I am. I was thinking of moving out of the dorm and getting my own apartment off campus. I haven’t found anybody yet who wants to make the move with me.”

  “Wow. I’d love to get out of the dorms. I may have to take you up on that. I’m Kate, by the way. Kate McMillan. I’m a sophomore chemistry major.”

  “Nice to meet you. My name’s Meg Caldwell. I’m a junior majoring in music education.”

  Once we both got our laundry going we walked over to the student center to check our mail and get some lunch. I liked her instantly. We really hit it off. We’d moved into our own apartment before the end of the month. Katie and I lived there until she graduated and got a job in another town. I stayed until I moved to Madison this past summer.

  I think one of the reasons we worked so well together as friends and roommates was because we were both introverts and hard workers. Neither of us dated much, partly because we were working too hard. And our idea of a fun weekend was something simple, like ordering a pizza and watching a couple movies.

  I missed Katie. Things hadn’t been quite the same since we stopped being roommates.

  ***

  The doorbell finally rang. I was so excited that I ran over to answer it. Katie handed me a gorgeous bouquet of flowers after we hugged.

  “Oh Katie, they’re beautiful! Thank you!” She always made me smile.

  “Only the best for my bestie. Are you prepared to feed me after my arduous journey?”

  “Of course I am. Step right into my luxurious café . . .”

  I had Katie’s favorite soup and salad ready and waiting, along with fresh French bread, European butter, and a nice chocolate cake for dessert.

  After lunch we sat on the couch, a cat in each lap. I told her everything. As always, Katie patiently listened to all the gory details.

  “So then,” I said, “I managed to survive the last two days by sewing together a few extra hair extensions and running to the bathroom during my planning period to check and re-adjust them.”

  Katie nodded. “Did your students ever mention it again?”

  I shook my head. “No. Thankfully. But it’s still so stressful. I know I won’t be able to keep using the extensions for much longer. I’m losing too much hair. I have no idea what I’m going to do.” I felt like I was going to cry.

  Katie took a long sip of her soda and stared at me thoughtfully. I imagined she was thinking hard to come up with some brilliant advice. She set her glass down on the side table next to her.

  “Meg, I’m worried about you.”

  Still feeling close to tears, I nodded. “Yeah, it’s been tough.”

  “I don’t just mean about your hair,” she said slowly. “I’ve been worried about you for a while.”

  “What do you mean?” I sniffed.

  Katie looked around the apartment. “You’ve been living here for what, six or seven months now?”

  “Yeah. And?”

  Katie looked uncomfortable. “And I have yet to hear you talk about people you’ve met since you moved here. You’ve never once mentioned a neighbor, a co-worker, or a friend. You never tell me about going out and doing things with anyone . . . or any socializing at all. It’s not good for you to be so isolated. Seriously, Meg, do you talk to anyone besides your students?”

  I thought for a moment. “Well . . . Tuesday evening I asked the person at the bookstore if they had any books by Charlotte MacLeod. And . . . well . . .” I was beginning to see what she meant. “It was so much easier when we were in college, wasn’t it?” I sighed. “You never had to try to meet people. I had classes with the other music students. I sang in the choir. I saw you every day . . .” I felt a pang as the words came out. Until that moment I hadn’t realized how very much I missed those days. I’d gotten used to my current life. It felt normal by now and I’d convinced myself that I was perfectly happy. But in reality I was really lonely. And feeling self-conscious about my hair all the time definitely wasn’t helping.

  “I know exactly what you need,” Katie said suddenly.

  “You do?�
�

  “Mm-hmm.” Katie took her phone out of her purse and starting typing. “You need a little boost. Something to inspire you to get out and meet people. Plus, you’re worried about your hair. I know a way to solve both problems.” She scrolled through the screens on her phone and tapped it a few times. “Aha! There’s one. You ready to go?”

  “Where?” I wondered if I was supposed to have the slightest idea what she was talking about.

  She smiled. “It’s a surprise.” She stood up and flung her purse over her shoulder. “Come on.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later we pulled into a parking lot. I looked around. Katie parked the car and shut it off.

  “Unless you’re trying to solve my problems by getting my kitchen re-tiled, or think you’re going to cheer me up by buying me a cheese omelet at Denny’s, I’m guessing that we’re going over there to Florica’s Wig Salon.”

  “Yup,” Katie said. “Even if you don’t buy a wig you should at least try some on. There have been studies that show when women feel better about their hair, or general appearance, they operate with more confidence. So much so that they walk differently, initiate conversations more easily, and improve their decision-making skills.”

  “Did you just make that up?”

  “Of course not. I’m a scientist.”

  “Okay, fine,” I said as we got out of the car and headed across the lot. “I’ll try on some wigs if it’ll make you happy.”

  “Good. That’s the spirit.”

  It seemed like trying on wigs might be kind of fun, in a weird sort of way. But the idea of actually wearing a wig in public sounded so . . . odd. Who was I, Dolly Parton? What kind of person wears a wig when it isn’t Halloween? Unfortunately, the obvious answer—women who are going bald—was quite depressing.

  I scanned the store as we walked inside. There were several shelves full of mannequin heads with all different types of hair. There seemed to be every color, length, and texture imaginable. But all their plastic faces had the same sullen, pouty expression.

  A woman in her late forties with long dark hair wrapped in a ruby-red scarf that hung over one shoulder and down to her waist glided up to us. She was wearing a matching red beaded necklace and a ton of gold bangles on each wrist.

  “Welcome to my salon,” she said as she bowed her head. “My name is Florica. What can I do for you lovely ladies this afternoon?”

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  Florica laughed—as if that were the most delightful thing she’d heard all day.

  “This is my friend Meg,” said Katie. “She’s wig shopping for the first time.”

  I nodded and sheepishly took off my cap.

  “Welcome Meg!” Florica boomed with a wave of her arm. She struck a regal pose as she studied me. “I will help you find the perfect new look.”

  “Well,” I said, feeling a little overwhelmed by all the color and sound emanating from this woman, “I don’t know that I want that much of a change. I mean, I’m just sort of here to look around. I’m not even sure that I’m the wig type, really.” The last thing I wanted to do was show up at school on Monday morning with jet-black hair, or anything too different, and have everyone wondering why.

  “Ah, we will see about that,” said Florica with a coy smile.

  Fortunately, my chestnut-colored hair was a common enough color that several of the wigs were a pretty close match. I spent the next half hour trying on wigs and studying myself in the mirror from different angles. After trying on a wig that was too curly, one that was too dark, one that had weirdly shaped bangs, and one that was too short, I finally fell in love with one. It was like my hair had magically grown back—just slightly smoother, shinier, with more body, and a touch of highlights.

  “This is beautiful.” I waved my head back and forth, delighted to look and feel like a model in a shampoo commercial.

  “See, maybe you are the wig type after all.” Florica turned to Katie. “What do you think?”

  “I love it.” Katie stepped over to me and rubbed a few strands of the hair between her fingers. “It looks so natural. I can’t believe it’s a wig.”

  “With wigs, you get what you pay for,” Florica said before announcing the price.

  It was an incredible amount of money. But I didn’t care. After all this time of either avoiding mirrors entirely or anguishing in front of them trying desperately to fix what I saw, it was such a relief—a joy—to look in the mirror and like what I saw. I actually felt pretty. I felt like me again.

  “I don’t ever want to take it off.” I laughed, swishing my head from side to side again, unable to take my eyes off my reflection. “I’ll take it.”

  When Katie and I left the salon I had a bounce in my step, a smile on my face, and a bag in my hand with a wig stand, hairbrush, shampoo, and conditioner.

  ***

  One thing you learn quickly when you’re a teacher is that you’re basically on display for at least a few hours a week. And the members of the audience—often referred to as “students”—notice everything. Super scrutiny is simply an occupational hazard.

  And it goes without saying that anything a teacher has or wears is fair game and subject to being publicly pointed out and commented upon . . . before possibly being discussed at length behind your back. Some favorite topics of discussion include the shades of lipstick, jewelry, quirky facial expressions, accents, lack of an accent, hand gestures, bags, clothes, and shoes worn by teachers.

  Fortunately, my wig was so similar to my natural hair that I didn’t have to deal with many questions about it on Monday. A few students—mostly girls—said my hair looked different or asked if I got a haircut. I simply told them yes, I got a haircut and some highlights. Everybody was satisfied with that answer and life went on.

  THIRTEEN

  Meg

  A lot of teachers like to take work home with them. I prefer to stay late at school if I have extra work. I think it’s because when I’m in my classroom it’s easy to keep working. But if I head home it’s too easy to plop on the couch and watch TV or read a book.

  This afternoon I stayed late. As part of one of the school’s initiatives to improve students’ writing all the teachers were required to give each class at least two writing assignments per grading period—regardless of the subject you taught. The writing papers I was grading were from my seventh and eighth grade chorus classes. The prompt was: Which of the songs that we have been working on is your favorite? Why?

  Some of my students always had more insightful things to say than others. Regardless, I took the time to comment on everyone’s written work. I know that may sound like a lot of wasted effort, especially since I didn’t even teach English. But when I was in sixth grade we had to keep a daily journal. Miss Basil collected it twice a month and she always wrote back to us in red pen in the margins. Since I still remembered that over a decade later, I figured I can spend a little time every now and then writing to my own students. Who knows, maybe someday one of them will have fond memories of me.

  I looked at Lisa White’s paper.

  I really like all the songs that we sing in chorus, especially the one about the beauty of the earth. It is a really pretty song. Plus I like it because it is our American language and not in a foreign language like some of the other songs that we sing. I think it is really dumb that we sing so many songs in a language we don’t even talk in and that we should sing more songs in our own American language, since we are Americans. So yeah, that song about the beauty of the earth is my favorite because of that and the piano part is pretty, except Miss Caldwell sometimes makes mistakes when she plays it.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. I briefly considered explaining that the name of the language we speak is, in fact, English. I decided that wasn’t wise . . . or necessary. Instead, I wrote:

  Lisa, I like “For the Beauty of the Earth” a lot too. And I know I’m not the best piano player in the world! Don’t worry, a woman named Mrs. Hershey will be coming in
to play the piano for our chorus concert. :)

  When I was finally finished reading and writing back to all my students I was more than ready to get out of there. I was getting hungry and I’d depleted my bottom-desk-drawer-stash of granola bars last week. It was also starting to get dark.

  I quickly straightened the pile of students’ papers, grabbed my purse, and headed out the door. I sang Regina Spektor’s On the Radio as I walked to the end of the art and music hall. I loved singing in the big hallway when no one was around . . . and how my voice echoed through the empty space.

  I was still singing as I pushed open the big heavy door to the outside. “While laughing . . .” the door clicked shut behind me as I reached inside my purse for my keys and realized that they weren’t there, “up a st . . .” My keys were still hanging on the hook in my classroom. Argh! That stupid hook was supposed to make it more convenient to lock my classroom during the day. But I always seemed to forget about my keys hanging there when I left at the end of the day. I should probably just stop this and keep my keys in my purse from now on.

  I rolled my eyes and swung my foot around in mid-step to head back into the building. I pulled on the handle and realized with horror that the door was locked. “No! Nooo!” I yelled, rattling the door harder which of course did no good at all. “Help!” I banged on it with both fists. “It’s Meg! Meg Caldwell! The chorus teacher! I’m locked out!” I banged harder. “I’m locked out and I need my keys! Help!”

  Who was I kidding? It was late and most of the classrooms I passed on my way out were dark and locked. Even if anyone was still inside they’d have to be in one of the classrooms near a door to hear me. I needed a plan B.

  I had my phone, of course. I could call . . . Who? I didn’t have contact info for any of the other teachers. Even if I had, I didn’t know anyone well enough to be interrupting their personal life to ask a favor just because I was a dimwit. In fact, I didn’t know anyone in town who I could ask to pick me. And again, even if I did, nobody had keys to my apartment.