Trapped in the Sheen of Her Hair
Mommy always combed my hair right before she put me to bed. One hundred strokes. We counted together, the stiff brush dragging the knots. She believed that many strokes would make me beautiful. And that’s what boys like. She was always concerned about boys and what they liked.
Me, I didn’t care so much about boys. I drank up her attention, the one time in the day when I had it. Undivided. She sat me on the low stool of her vanity, and I watched the brush through the tunnel of the three-way mirror that set on top. The way she took each of my blonde curls and worked the brush from scalp to ends, keeping one hand near my head so she wouldn’t pull.
I never talked those times. She didn’t like me talking. There in the quiet of her room was her time to get herself ready. The last few minutes with me were a balm to her nerves. Whatever that means. Mommy talked about her nerves.
A lot.
Maybe it was all her concern about boys that shot her nerves. She liked boys. She spent most of her time entertaining them. That’s what she called it. Entertaining. Sometimes in our house. Other times, nice cars would pull up out on St. Philip or Bourbon, and she would get in the back seats of them. I assumed the boys were driving, but I never saw.
Anyway.
I only meant to think the things about Mommy and boys, while I watched her brush the knots out of my hair. Little girls aren’t supposed to say bad things about their mommies, especially TO their faces. But, I did. I said she probably shot her nerves entertaining boys, and her face got a funny look right before it drained of color.
She hauled off and pulled my hair.
Welcome to Mommy Dearest, a series of fiction. The one where I try to write in the voice of a nine-year-old girl. I am terrified, because I personally haven’t been nine in a long time.
The “low stool of her vanity” is a great phrase. Although I assume “Vanity” is what we Brits call a “dressing table” If “vanity” is accepted in a more abstract way, the phrase assumes a wonderful meaning in the context of “mommie’s” behaviour:)
Yes, Roger, a vanity is a dressing table. I don’t know how common they are these days. I’m glad my readers see metaphors, because I almost never intend to write them.
I am confident of your ability to capture the heart and mind of a nine year old…and if you get stuck, just make a call to the Bayou.
She is awfully busy these days. But, you’re right. That would help.
You are doing an excellent job of capturing the voice of a nine year old girl, Andra.
So far. MTM says I shouldn’t tell readers that I’m trying to write in that voice. He’s probably right.
I like the way you’ve captured the child’s voice too. You don’t need to tell us, because it shines through. I would have put her a little younger than nine, but it seems like this is an earlier era, so a nine year old might still be thinking along those lines.
It’s 1977. I probably shouldn’t tell you that, either.
It is very hard to remember back to how I saw the world then. I was eight in 1977, but I just don’t have a clear recall on what the world was like.
Andra, this looks like it will be an interesting series and I’m looking forward to it. I love the line, “I personally haven’t been nine in a long time”.
Well, I’ve never been a man, either, but I tackled that in my last series.
too funny
To recall 1977, you might wander over to the library and read a few microfilms of newspapers and magazines of the time. Might jog your memory and help create the scenes you want, not that you need them. You are doing very well on your own.
I remember a lot of the stuff that happened. I just don’t remember how I felt about them or processed them. I was sort of in my own little world. And, maybe that’s just as it should be.
Such creativity to pull out different voices, times and places, and hone your skills. Children mature at different rates and those pre-adolescent years are extremely variable dependent on other socialization processes. You will be fine with this character’s age, especially given that the mid-70s were indeed a bit more innocent. Cable television and wide-open-no-censor programming hadn’t hit and immediately catapulted every child developmentally forward by half a decade! I also think as you write in this voice you’re going to come back around and meet 9-year old Andra again. That should be very interesting…and perhaps a whole other writing adventure.
This little girl has been exposed to a lot more in her life than I was at nine. But, I still want that innocence to shine through……As for going back to me at nine, that should be an interesting ride.
I don’t think I’d go back to any age, especially such a young one. Especially since I’d have to make all the mistakes I made all over again to learn anything about life.
I think you handled that voice fine.
I don’t know why: I love the ‘Anyway’ on its own. I can se her eyes roaming the room as she finds a place to put this experience of hers.
She is one tough little girl. That’s for sure.
Love this blog! Read often. I nominate you for the One Lovely Blog Award!
http://julietruekingsley.com/2012/10/01/one-lovely-blog-award/
Aw, thanks so much, Julie. I will endeavor to respond in the coming days.
Andra, I could hear that nine year old’s voice very clearly! Well done!
Do you have an inner nine-year-old, Tom? We probably all do, but yours would probably write some very interesting posts on your blog.
My heart cries out for this little one…run little one, run. My Grandma’s Momma groomed her in the same way…with the idea that she could sell her one day. I feel very protective of this little one…not sure why. Nicely done Andra.
This is, like, the millionth time in the past week that I’ve shrieked, “It’s a sign!!” I can’t say why, but I did it again with this comment, Lori.
Fascinating. The voice of a child always intrigues me. You’ve done well. My mother refused to comb my hair as a kid, SO this is kind of bitter-sweet for me. Love the vanity metaphor.
Hugs,
Kathy
My mom used to brush my hair, and she never pulled. I loved it.
Have FUN getting in touch with your inner child, Andra.
With a very public voice. Ha.
Precocious and chilling. A child who’s seen too much. Even if she doesn’t fully understand it.
She may understand a lot more than we want her to. It is interesting to write these stories.
I thought this was another one about your childhood at first… till I got to the boys part…
Well written fiction piece, Andra. I’m way out of order on your blog… I’ll go check out the start of’Mommy Dearest’.
Oh, I guess this is the start. Just read the second… good stuff.
Definitely NOT about my childhood – or anyone else’s that I know.
I see that now… you have created a living breathing voice in this child… I truly care about her. The sign of a good writer… you think?
I hope it is that. And, the sign of a good story.
I always love scenes like this; they bear so little resemblance to my childhood (on all fronts, really), but there’s something about that ritual of brushing the hair that seems so intimate.
As I recall, my nine year old self had a powerful hate on for “Johnny Tremain.” Strange, the things that you remember clearly decades later.
Did everyone on earth have to read that book? I couldn’t stand it, either.
Your skill is being honed every day Andra, loving this new series