|
Flip Flopped Page 2
Feeling alive, finally acceptable to the attractive movers and shakers of Memorial high school, sure that this was the day my Dippity Doo would pull through for me, I would make my first trip of the day to the bathroom, the mirror waiting to give me the stamp of approval I craved. But the arduous routine of daily pain, was met with the shock of the flop. For there, instead of the perky flip, was a head of limp, dark brown angel hair pasta.
Now I want to make you perfectly aware that it is no accident that I said angel hair pasta. If I'd said regular pasta there might have been a chance that my flip could have stayed a flip. My curse is that I have lots of hairs per square inch but so fine that it was impossible for even Dippity Doo to hold a curl beyond the bus ride to school. Maybe it was that walk up the street to the bus stop that did me in.
|
The image in the mirror was perfection. A flip that lived up to the highest 1965 standards, poofed around my head, the ends curled up in a perfect continuous wave, resting on my shoulders, the raw power of nature in motion. I was a starlet, ready to be discovered. After a little mascara, rouge, and lipstick, and a quick breakfast, I confidently launched myself into the world, which in my case, included a block walk to the bus stop. On the way to school, I always sat with my intellectual friend, Charles, who read Ayn Rand, and whose parents were both architects. I felt alive, accepted, and very together. We sat at the back of the bus immersed in earthshaking conversation, my flip dancing happily on my shoulders. This was daily routine, the key to a perfect life locked in the promise of finally having a good hair day.
