Piquetitos de Sangre

15 of December 2013

Last night Kira, Aidan, and I went out to the Plaza Americanas mall and saw the new Hunger Games movie at the cinema. I’m not particularly inspired by the books or the movies- I think it’s just because the genre and plot aren’t really my type and I don’t see what exactly is so epic about them. But I’ll read almost anything I can get my hands on, so of course I endured the Hunger Games trilogy. It was lucky that I did read them too, because the movie I went to played all in Espanol, without English subtitles. As the pictures jumped about and the scenes progressed, I was able to follow the storyline from both recollection and a growing understanding of Spanish, and whisper it to Aidan in English. But let me tell you: watching a movie all in a foreign language (well, it’s not so foreign anymore) makes you really pay attention to the cinematography and the quality of the acting and sets; I have a whole different perspective on the movie because I watched it in Spanish first.

The worldwide phenomenon that the Hunger Games has become always brings me back to the blank canvas hallways at OCSA, my high school in America. It was Gay Pride Day, and rascals in rainbow Speedos and justAmericanflags– nothing under- ran rampant in preppy, enthusiastic spirit all across campus. I was collaborating with a group of peers in one of the nooks next to the stairwell on the seventh floor during class- but our “collaborative meeting” was mostly an excuse to the leave the classroom and talk. We were an unlikely bunch: an artist, two singers, three actors, a guitarist, a dancer, and a production and design guru. In the social economy of the school, we didn’t quite fit in together either, but our escapee posse made for one helluva conversation. Partway through our talk, the dancer, who was an avid and extremely public worshipper of all things Hunger Games, turned to me and told me I had an uncanny resemblance to Jennifer Lawrence. I dumbly creased my brow and asked who Jennifer Lawrence was. At that point in time, I had no idea what all the Katniss Everdeen hubbub was, and I was blissfully ignoring it, but my exclamation of social media unawareness wasn’t well received, especially by the dancer chick with the Lawrence fetish. Jared, one of the singers with a husky, low voice that made everything he said sound half-mast and sexy, brought up a picture of the actress on his phone and the group compared our features. Personally, I thought they were all completely out of their heads when I saw what she looked like, but some insisted we have similarities. Being an artist, I know my bone structure well: the slant of my eyes, my high cheekbones, blah blah blah- and I certainly see no resemblance whatsoever. Yet that day always comes floating back to the front of my brain when the Hunger Games are brought up, so I of course recalled the funny conversation as I intermittently relayed the events of the movie to Aidan yesterday.

Mum swung by the mall at around ten thirty pm and brought my siblings and I home. Kira had slammed her forefinger in the heavy glass doorway at the exit of the mall, and Mum was busy with her downstairs when we got home, stabilizing it. Aidan had gone to his room and the rest of the family was asleep, leaving me to my wits in my quiet room. I snapped on the mellow light in the bathroom, casting a faint glow on the crown of my head. Reaching back, I let my long blonde hair loose from its confines, and it tumbled down my naked back. I parted my hip-length locks and pulled them forward, so my grown out bangs framed my chin mischievously and the ends curled around my breasts. I fingered a pair of small, golden scissors, and then brought them to the strand of hair that was kissing my ear. Snipsnip. I held the thick tress in my fist and then quietly watched as I let it fall, piece by piece, into the toilet. I raised my chin in the mirror, and stood straight, assessing the damage. On one side, my hair is shaved razor short in a patch, and now, on the other, a short bit frolics playfully about my cheek. I stuck out my bottom lip defiantly and left the bathroom, forgetting to flush away the evidence.

When Kira stumbled into the room with her bandaged hand, a drama queen sensitively wounded and not letting that fact go by anyone, she went into the bathroom and I realized I was caught. For some cosmic reason, I didn’t remember to get rid of the only thing that could incriminate me- besides Mum seeing my freshly cut hair, which wasn’t going to happen for a while, according to my plans. Mum took one look at the crime scene and turned to me with a horribly startled expression. “Why’d you cut your hair?!” As she recovered and had more and more questions, she gradually stepped closer to me until she was standing at my bedside and I was sitting cross-legged, as sternly as I could manage. Long story short, she stalked downstairs after relieving me of my “devices” and I, unable to sleep as usual, felt obliged to write her a letter. I found a pen, a notebook, and the light of the hall and wrote her this letter of apology:

Dear Reader:

Frida Kahlo cut her hair once. She cut it all off, and then she painted herself after with scissors in her hands and ribbons of black hair on the floor. I don’t know her purpose exactly, and I suppose no one will ever really know what she was thinking, but one thing’s for sure: she was thinking really hard about something. Maybe even lots of things.

Now, my idol chopping off her hair didn’t prompt me to want to try. I wouldn’t say anyone could prompt me to do it- in fact, Frida’s momentous act only came to mind when I decided I needed to write this letter of justification. In understand why you are mad or upset or both, I really do, and I’m sorry for my actions. I don’t, honestly, know why exactly I decided to cut my hair. Maybe I was putting out some little fire growing inside of me, but I’m not deep enough to know if that’s true or not. I think I just wanted to try it, and I know that sounds bad. But “just try it” isn’t an excuse I’ve ever used before, and I’m almost positive I’ll never use it again. I won’t use it with drugs, that’s for darned sure. I take too much pride in myself to screw around with stupid things like that. And I certainly would never use that phrase to justify an action that would determine the course of my life. I have a plan, big plans intact, and I would always have a hole inside me if I didn’t try to make my plans a reality. So what was cutting my hair for? Maybe it was partly that childish desire everyone has to cut a Barbie doll’s hair, except I tried it on myself this time. I think I just felt like I had to, because I’ve always wanted to and hair grows anyway. 

Here I had to carefully turn the page of the notebook for more room to write. I winced as the paper scratched about, worried that Mum would hear the faint echoes.

I’m not trying to rebel, I’m not trying to show I can be older and make decisions on my own, because frankly this would have been an awful way to show maturity. It flaunted my immaturity even. 

I’m not crazy, I’m not experiencing depression or having suicidal thoughts- nah, I’m not emo or angry or whatever that would point to. I’m happy actually, I think. It wasn’t an action meant to be taken as something else: a sign, a cry for help, blah blah blah. All that crap counselors would perceive it to be, Nope, it was purely me cutting a piece of my hair off like I’ve always thought would be fun to try. Why did I try it now? I don’t know- I’m partially bald anyway. So to wrap this up:

– I’m sorry, I won’t cut my hair again.

-I did it because it looked like fun to try, ever since I was like, seven years old and cutting Barbies’ hair is just kinda weird…

-I’m not going to use the “I just wanted to try it” excuse again; I can’t let anything big-bad-and-scary interfere with my success or the people I love. 


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