It starts with a wad of bubblegum the summer I turn eight.
Though too young to understand the significance of the four students killed at Kent State or the U.S. invasion of Cambodia, I’m enamored by the Beatles Let It Be playing on our Technics turntable every night when my father returns home from work.
“Put the needle back to the start,” he yells from the living room sofa. “Carefully!”
I crouch at the stereo console, buoyed by this new responsibility. My braids tap against my chest as I lower the plexiglass cover and music fills the room.
One night I chew three sugary squares of Bazooka while reading Nancy Drew with a flashlight under my white summer coverlet. I’m breaking two rules: reading after nine p.m. lights out and chewing gum after I’ve brushed my teeth. I fall asleep with The Hidden Staircase in my hand.
When I wake, the flashlight has burned out and the book is closed beneath the sheet. I’ve entirely forgotten about the bubblegum. After splashing my face with water, I decide to redo my braids. When I get to the top of the first one, my hair pulls against my scalp. I turn sideways towards the mirror. A wad of dried-up pinkish gum is matted in the hair of both braids, and no matter how hard I tug, it won’t come out. I dunk my head under the tap to see if water will help. It does not.
Now I must tell my mother.
She tries to remove the gum with a wide-toothed plastic comb, to no avail. “We’ll go to the salon and have Pat take care of it,” she says.
I sit in the tall swivel chair with a pink plastic drape around my shoulders. Pat swings the chair around so she can work on me. Then she hands me two braids, caramel sprinkled with gold.
“You’re going to love your new hair,” she announces, turning the chair back to the mirror.
“A pixie cut,” my mother quips. “Like Twiggy.”
They both laugh. I can’t believe the person in the mirror is me. When I hop off the chair, the braids fall onto the floor with the rest of my hair.
At home, I run into the bathroom, lock the door and stare at myself in the mirror. My mother’s friend stops by for a cup of coffee. When I come into the kitchen, she says, “Oh, she looks like a little boy.” My mother doesn’t say anything.
I dart into the laundry room, hot tears on my cheeks. I want to go back to who I was before. I want to throw something at my mother’s friend. Instead, I sit on a warm pile of folded towels for a while, then make my way out the side door to the yard.
Up in my treehouse, I can’t see myself. I run my hands through my shorn hair.
A little boy.
In that moment, hidden in the dense leafy branches of the old maple, I decide.
From now on, I’ll be a tomboy like Becky in Huckleberry Finn and Jo in Little Women. I don’t yet know about Amelia Earhart or Joan of Arc, but I will. I have a lot of reading to do while my hair grows back.
Shine until tomorrow, as the song goes.
