Not Your All-American Girl

by Wendy Wan-Long Shang

“Not too much,” I reminded him. The bathroom was already smelling very lemony.

  “Yeah, yeah. Girls are so weird,” said David. “I’m planning to have this haircut with this hair color until I’m eighty.” Then, because he was David, he added, “Did you know that in ancient Greece, a ruler sent a secret message to a friend by shaving a slave’s head and tattooing a message on his scalp? By the time he reached enemy territory, his hair had grown over the message.”

  “So then he had to get his head shaved again when he reached the friend?”

  “Yup.”

  I started braiding my hair. “I’m not planning on being anyone’s secret messenger.”

  David watched me finish the second braid. “You missed a lot of hair.”

  “I’m making smaller braids to get a tighter wave,” I said. “And then I’m going to blow-dry the braids because I think you need heat to activate the Sun In.”

  He studied my head. “By my calculations, you’re going to need about six more braids to get all your hair.”

  “You’re going to need to be about six times less weird to join normal society,” I said.

  “Normal is overrated,” said David.

  Maybe normal was overrated. But for the first time in my life, I was going to look like everyone else and I couldn’t wait.

  THAT NIGHT, I DREAMED I WAS IN A book of fairy tales, and all the princesses wanted my hair. Patsy’s song “Sweet Dreams” drifted around us, achy and lovely. Rapunzel cried because her hair was too light, and dark hair was better. Also, she wanted trout. Sleeping Beauty woke up for me, not the prince, and her first question was how to get waves like mine. Snow White tugged on her hair, and it magically became longer, just like the Crissy doll I still had tucked away in the basement. In the dream, I didn’t talk, I just smiled and danced into the next story.

  It was one of those dreams that is so involved you don’t hear the alarm go off and you have to be woken up by your brother pounding on the door. “Hey, Little House, you’re going to be late for school!”

  I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. To save time, I started taking out the ponytail holders while I used the toilet. Then I ran my fingers through my braids to undo them, shook out my hair, and jumped in front of the mirror to see the full effect.

  Oh no!

  I had imagined long, flowy, light brown curls. Instead, I had orange stripes in my hair. My very, very voluminous wavy hair.

  I may have screamed.

  David came running. “What’s the matter?”

  I pointed to my hair. “This is the matter! You made me look like a tiger! A stripy, stupid tiger!”

  “You said not to do too much!”

  “So?”

  “So I did half your hair, as measured out in regular intervals. And what’s wrong with tigers?”

  “I don’t want to look like a tiger! I meant lightly, all over!”

  “I was just trying to be mathematical about it.” David gave me a long look. “I think you look kind of cool. Like Van Halen. I gotta go. I can’t be late.”

  I looked at the clock. I had about two minutes before I would have to run the entire way to school.

  I started the tap and started pressing handfuls of water on my hair. Go down, go down. Be less orange, be less orange. It didn’t do either. Now I had springy and wet striped hair. I looked around the bathroom for help. I pumped a dollop of coconut-scented moisturizer onto my hair, which made it springy, wet, and, because my hair already had a lemon scent, smelling like a tropical fruit salad.

  Wai Po came upstairs. “Eh? Why haven’t you left for school? You should have left already!”

  “I can’t go to school.” I pointed to my head.

  “If you are not sick, you go to school,” she said. “Hair is not important.” Then she said, “It’s orange. Does your mother know your hair is orange?”

  “If I go to school like this,” I said, “I will die from embarrassment.”

  “Put on a hat,” said Wai Po. “You do not want a tardy!” Making sure David and I left for school on time was one of Wai Po’s jobs, and she took it very seriously. She seemed to think a tardy went on her permanent record, not mine.

  I didn’t have any hats, but David did, from the one time he played Little League. I ran into his room, grabbed his baseball cap, and pulled my hair through the hole in the back. A baseball cap would have the bonus of making me look more all-American. Maybe I could find a hot dog and run around with that, too. What about now, Mrs. Tyndall? Who’s your all-American girl now?

  Wai Po looked at me. “Your hair is as big as your head. And you look like a lao hu.”

  Of course, David had played for the Tigers, so the hat and my hair looked like some terrible costume. My hair came out in a large poof in the back. Then the hat sprang backward. The waves on top of my head had popped it off, like popcorn pushing the lid off a pot.

  I ripped the hat off and let out a scream, which was the loudest I’d been since I stopped singing. Wai Po covered her ears and shouted, “IT’S NOT THAT BAD.”

  “It is,” I said. I pushed down on my hair for what seemed like the millionth time and watched it spring back up. I wondered if there was something that could reverse Sun In. Sun Out? “Please can I stay home?”

  “No,” said Wai Po. “You are not missing school for this. When I was your age, we were only allowed to have hair down to here.” She pointed to a spot about half an inch below her earlobe. “Maybe that was a good idea. Stop worrying about looks and focus on books.” She smiled at her rhyme.

  I grabbed a bandana, folded it into a triangle, and tied it around my head. The cloth billowed out slightly, but it was the best look I had so far. I grabbed my backpack and ran out of the house. I thought about skipping school, but they called home when you did that. I wished I could beam myself into homeroom instead of wading through the hallway. I wished I could beam myself into outer space. I’ll bet everybody had bad hair in zero gravity.

  I HOPED I COULD GO A FEW PERIODS before anyone recognized me. But Cheryl recognized me about ten seconds after I walked through the door.

  “Lauren!” She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me behind one of the pillars in the hallway. “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  She took a step back and studied me. “I assume this is not your preferred hairstyle.”

  I shook my head and peeked around the pillar. The hallway was still filled with kids.

  “I want to go home.”

  “No, look, everything’s going to be fine,” said Cheryl. “We just have to be creative.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out a banana clip. Banana clips were the latest thing for hair; they looked like two wide-toothed combs joined at one end on a hinge.

  She bent over and spun her hair around the comb. When she stood back up, her hair was in a bun.

  “How did you … ?”

  “Grab your backpack.” We started down the hall, and Cheryl stopped at the first person who stared at me.

  “Hi! We’re with the musical, and we’re trying out new hairstyles. Can you give us some feedback?” said Cheryl. She turned and modeled her bun, and then motioned for me to do the same. I forced myself to smile.

  “Uhhhh. I like your hairstyle? I guess?”

  “Duly noted.” Cheryl pulled a notebook from her backpack and made a mark in it. “That’s one for the updo. Thanks for your input!”

  We made our way down the hallway like that, Cheryl carrying out her fake survey, and me pretending that this was intentional. Shockingly some kids picked my hairdo.

  “It’s different,” said one girl. “The other one is kind of boring.”

  Then the first-period bell rang. I grabbed Cheryl’s arm. “What am I going to do now? I can’t do this without you.” Giving up Cheryl felt like giving up a shield in the middle of a battle.

  “Just keep doing what we’ve been doing. It’s for the play; it was totally intentional,” said Cheryl. “Just make it through first period.”
/>   “Thanks,” I said. “You’re totally saving me.”

  I made it through history, in part because Mr. Harper is one of those awesome teachers who likes to do funny stuff with students. In this case, I thought it was especially nice of him because Mr. Harper was bald.

  “Who thinks this is a good hairstyle for the play? And not a good hairstyle?” Mr. Harper looked over the class. “Looks like the class would prefer a different hairstyle.” I smiled and pretended to make a mark in my notebook. “Sometimes you want a more dramatic look, or you’re trying to convey a certain characteristic.”

  “Like bald teacher,” said Tony.

  “That’s from the stress of teaching you guys,” said Mr. Harper. He ran his hand over his head. “Before I started teaching, I had a head full of thick, beautiful hair.” He looked at me. “I never styled it quite like that, though.”

  Second period was Home Ec with Mrs. Shrewsbury, who was not as nice as Mr. Harper. She said she had to be strict because kids could get hurt on the stove or the sewing machines if they didn’t follow directions. We were scheduled to start learning about sewing machines that day.

  I held my breath and walked into the sewing room. Then I heard, “Psst. Lauren!”

  I looked over and saw Hallelujah, patting the sewing machine next to her. She had straightened her bangs in the front, and then pulled the rest of her hair into a ponytail and added a headband. She looked very 1950s.

  I ran over and squeezed next to her. “I can’t believe it.”

  Mrs. Shrewsbury walked over and stared at us. “What, exactly, is going on here?” she asked.

  “We’re testing out hairstyles for the play,” said Hallelujah.

  “I don’t know anything about hairstyles for the play, but I do know that these are very safe hairstyles.” She raised her voice to address the class. “Class! I’d like to point out these very safe hairstyles that Lauren and Hallelujah are wearing. Lauren’s kerchief is keeping her hair away from the sewing machine, and so is Hallelujah’s ponytail and headband.”

  The rest of the class turned and stared at us blankly. Just like that, Mrs. Shrewsbury had made my hair seem like the most boring thing in the world.

  “Maybe we should all make kerchiefs as a project,” said Mrs. Shrewsbury. “But first, let’s learn the parts of the sewing machine.”

  “So what’s really going on?” whispered Hallelujah.

  “I wanted to look …” I almost said like everyone else, but then realized how stupid that sounded. Hallelujah was the only black girl in the musical. I hadn’t even thought about that. “I wanted to look different,” I said. Different from me. The same as everybody else.

  “No, I get it,” said Hallelujah. “I get it.” She let out a long breath. “Like take a break, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I pointed at my hair. “You see how well that turned out.”

  “People see what they want to see. There are four other black girls in this school. We look nothing alike but I get called by their names all the time.”

  “That stinks,” I said. I wasn’t sure what was worse: being confused for other people, or being the only person.

  “What did your mom say?”

  “She hasn’t seen it yet.”

  “Is she going to kill you?”

  “Probably. Technically I didn’t break her rules, but my mom wants to go to law school. She’ll find a way to make me guilty.”

  Hallelujah looked at my orange stripes. “Or she might decide you’ve been punished enough,” she said.

  I held my breath as I walked into science. So far, everyone who had helped me out was in the ensemble. Would Tara help me? If she didn’t, everyone would find out that we weren’t really doing a hairstyle test.

  Tara’s eyes widened when she saw my hair. “That’s … electric.”

  “We’re telling everyone that we’re testing hairstyles for the musical.” I grinned wildly.

  Chris Pohansky came over. “Why isn’t your hair different?” he asked Tara.

  What I wanted was for Tara to pull her hair into a high ponytail, smile at Chris, and play along. She could do a fifties look in thirty seconds. But instead, she shrugged and said, “It’s an ensemble thing, I guess.”

  Chris walked away. I stood, staring openmouthed at Tara.

  “What?” said Tara. “What’s wrong?”

  I couldn’t believe Tara didn’t know what was going on. Couldn’t she see? “Nothing,” I said. Like the connection between us. Nothing.

  Aside from Tara, the rest of the day went to plan. Duncan slicked back his hair like Hector. It was a style called a ducktail because it made a tiny flip at the base of his neck. Lila coaxed her hair into big, glamorous rolls. By the time we made it to rehearsal, the entire school had an opinion about our hairstyles, and no one thought I was out of the ordinary, except for the orange part.

  Mrs. Tyndall came over to our section and shook her head slowly. “I’ve been hearing some pretty strange rumors about you all day today.”

  We looked at her innocently. “Good publicity for the play, huh?” asked Duncan.

  “I hope you sound better than you look,” she said.

  After she walked away, I whispered, “Thanks, guys.”

  “Side dishes stick together,” said Cheryl.

  When we had a break, I went out to the bathroom to look at my hair. My stupid, striped hair. It had lost a little bit of volume during the day, but you could still see the stripes. A good shampoo and conditioner might fix the volume. But it wouldn’t fix the color.

  Maybe there wasn’t a ghost in the theater. Maybe there was just a curse.

  AS I HAD GUESSED, MY MOM DISCOVERED a loophole and found me guilty of Using Chemicals to Color My Hair because even though it was mostly natural, Sun In had extra ingredients. I think she was really mad about my hair. She kept looking over at me, sighing and shaking her head. Because we had Saturday rehearsal, I was really only grounded for a day and a half. At least I had an excuse not to leave the house with my tiger hair.

  My grandmothers tried to make my grounding less terrible by bringing things to me. Wai Po went to the library and brought home a stack of books. Safta brought a black handbag with a mesh screen when she came over Sunday night to watch TV with us. A little kitty face was poking out.

  “Mini!” I scooped her up and gave her a little kiss.

  “I thought the expression was ‘cat out of the bag,’ not ‘cat in the bag,’ ” said Wai Po.

  “It’s no different than having a dog on a leash,” Safta said. Then she added, “Except Beatrice Minerva is tidier. Remember: She can use the toilet.”

  Wai Po lifted Bao Bao onto her lap. He started licking the newspaper. She put him down, and he started following Mini, sniffing. Mini ignored him.

  “Beatrice Minerva has another new trick,” announced Safta. She cleared her throat. “Beatrice Minerva, I would like to watch some TV. TV, Minerva.”

  Mini, who had not yet learned that cats sometimes hiss when there’s a dog in the room, walked over to the TV and looked at the screen for a minute.

  “It’s not even on,” said Wai Po. She seemed pleased.

  But then Mini got up on her hind legs and stretched her small body into a long one. She tapped the power button on the TV with her paw, one, two, three times. The TV screen came to life.

  My parents clapped while Safta gave Mini a treat. “That’s really something,” said Dad.

  “Can you teach her how to change channels?” asked David.

  “If you get a new TV with a remote,” said Safta.

  “We won’t be buying a new anything until after Lauren’s bat mitzvah,” said Mom. I noticed she did not mention law school, which was also expensive. I knew because she had a fat catalog of law schools that she kept on the coffee table.

  Safta looked at Wai Po. “It’s so nice to have a helpful companion.”

  Wai Po ignored Safta’s dig. “It’s almost Star Search time!”

  “We can watch something else,”
I said.

  My parents gave each other a look. “You love Star Search,” said Mom.

  “I did. Now I don’t,” I said.

  “But this is the other thing I wanted to show you,” said Safta. “I am making you a Nudie suit.” She pulled out a piece of bright red cloth.

  It was a red button-down, western shirt with two pockets in the front. The arms were trimmed with fringe, and a sparkly flower had started to make its way up one side.

  “For when you are a star,” said Safta proudly.

  “Or if you are ever stranded on a remote island,” said Wai Po. “And need to be seen from the air.”

  “I thought you like red,” said Safta.

  “I like red,” said Wai Po. “This is very shiny.”

  “That’s beautiful,” said Mom. “You like it, don’t you, Lauren?” She used that voice that parents use when you’re supposed to play along. “It would be perfect for Star Search.”

  “I just said I don’t like Star Search,” I said. “But I suppose I should get used to that.”

  “Get used to what?” asked Mom.

  “You not knowing stuff about me,” I said. “When you go to law school. You’ll be paying attention to that, not me.” I expected Mom to get mad and maybe we would have a fight about her going to law school. Instead she folded her hands in her lap and studied them.

  “We seem to have gotten a long way from why you aren’t watching Star Search, which has nothing to do with law school,” she said.

  “You already sound like a lawyer,” I said. But I didn’t say it like a compliment.

  “And you sound like those kids on Star Search,” said Safta. Who did say it like a compliment. She folded up the shirt carefully and put it back in her purse.

  “I can’t even get a good part in the school play,” I said.

  “Oh, Lauren,” said Mom. “Just because you didn’t get the lead one time, you can’t be so quick to give up.”

  “It’s not one time,” I said. “It’s the way it is.”

  “It’s because the director said that Lauren doesn’t look American,” said David.