Your Face (kandigurl) wrote,
Your Face

LJ Idol Exhibit A - Week 4 - "Ultra Deep Field"

I hate my hair.

I know, I know, there are girls that would kill to have my hair. I know this because they scream it in my face all the time. They grab said hair (as if it's not attached to a human) and shriek, "Oh my GOD, Lace, I would KILL to have those curls!" But frankly, I'd like to know who they're killing, so I can warn those people to ditch town, because my hair isn't worth getting snuffed over.

People don't know how long it takes to get the stuff to cooperate. It may look like flowing strands of golden curls to you, but to me, it's an endless jungle of frizz, unwieldy straw blowing carelessly in the wind, not giving a shit that I have to interact with people today and don't particularly want to look like I've never used a hairbrush.

You know whose hair I'd kill for?


Glossy, brown, simple, straight (but not so straight that it's boring). Hit it with a few pumps of light hold hairspray and you're good to go. (She doesn't, of course, but that's why I should have that hair, not her.) She doesn't know how perfect it is.

She doesn't know a lot of things. Like how, when Bret Anthony and I were making out in the backseat of my car, he kept winding strands of the misbehaved mess on my head around his nicotine-stained finger, telling me how he gets lost in it, like he's on some damn nature trek through my hair or something. Not gonna lie, it weirded me out. Most guys stare at your tits, not the top of your head.

Gwen doesn't need to know about that, or how shitty a best friend I am. She doesn't need to know that my enthusiasm for her ridiculous Ask-Bret-To-Prom plan stems from a moldy guilt sandwich, with a side of shame.

Friends don't make out with the guys their friends have been in love with for years. Not good friends, anyway.

So when I'm giving her advice on how to look her best, it's an effort to quiet that dickhead conscience of mine, whispering reminders of my indiscretions.

I can't even warn her about what an asshole Bret is, either, because then I'd have to tell her everything.

No, I have to hold her hand as she climbs onto the boat. Adjust her hat so the sun stays out of her eyes. Ask her if she remembered to pack her toothbrush. Smile and wave as she leaves the harbor.

Look the other way from the holes in the hull.

This is a work of fiction, in the same storyline as the other entries from previous weeks, though ideally it stands on its own. Feedback and concrit welcome.

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