A Day at the Salon

[lb_lee]

A Day at the Salon
Prompt: ‘Black’
Word Count: 831
Notes: Believe it or not, Biff didn’t come out of the womb a raging asshole. This was back before he hit puberty and self-destructed. Mildred and Josephine are his little sisters. Yeah, his whole family has terrible names.

Millie and JoJo start getting their hair relaxed when Biff is twelve.

Mama calls it ‘a day at the salon,’ and makes it a big production, but that’s a joke. Their father wants to deal with neither the expense of a hairdresser, nor his wife’s natural hair, which means ‘the salon’ is over the kitchen sink, while the old man’s at work, and everyone pretends her hair is naturally straight. Biff wonders if his father actually knows the amount of work that goes into his wife’s appearance. Probably not.

And now it’s Millie and JoJo’s turn. Millie goes without a fuss—as usual—but JoJo pitches a fit. Which is too bad for her, because her hair is somehow even bushier and coarser than Mama’s, and it’s been a cause for snickers and meaningful looks since the day she was born. JoJo hates that—but turns out she hates the perm more.

“It burns!”

“Of course it burns. That’s how you know it’s working.”

“Biff don’t got to do it! How come I got to do it? It ain’t fair!”

“Ain’t isn’t a word and life isn’t fair. Some people in this family get good hair, and you aren’t one of them.”

JoJo sends Biff the look of venomous death that only a seven-year-old can pull off. “I hate you.”

Biff pretends to be deeply invested in his magazine. His nose is still taped and splinted, a dull swollen ache; he doesn’t have the energy to fight.

Millie, wrapped in a towel, crouches at Biff’s side and plays with his hair.

“I wish I had hair like yours,” she whispers.

“Sorry, sweetie,” Mother says over JoJo’s yowling. “Daddy’s hair doesn’t pass on like mine does.”

Biff keeps his face straight. He knows he has it good with the old man’s greasy, thin blond hair and lighter skin, but everyone likes to remind him that he’s the spitting image of the old man. He’d rather look like his sisters’ brother than his father’s son.

He knows better than to say so.

Afterwards, Millie retreats to her room and her books, while JoJo sits sulking and sniveling in her towel. Her fluffy curls have been steamrolled flat and straight down around her shoulders. As their mother walks by, JoJo shouts, “Tessie got hair like mine, and she don’t perm it!”

Mama’s unfazed. “Tessie’s daddy doesn’t care about his family like yours does. He wants you all looking—and speaking—your best. And don’t you look pretty now?”

JoJo scowls at her departing back, then turns to Biff. “Lucky,” she says. “You don’t got to do anything.”

Biff shrugs, grunts, and turns a magazine page. Mama gave up on his looks long before he got his nose broken.

“Let me tell you, when I get big, I ain’t never perming my hair again!” She raises her voice the last half, making sure their mother can hear. “I’m gonna be just like Tessie!”

“You do that,” Mama replies, still cool. “You go on with your nappy-headed self, find yourself a good job and a good man talking like that.”

JoJo scowls and slouches in her towel.

“I wish I looked like you,” she says to Biff. “Even if you’re fat and your face is all messed up.”

His voice sounds stupid and congested. “You want to look like Daddy?”

“No. I want to look like you.”

Biff is silent. The snickers and snide remarks he puts up with are nothing compared to what the twins get, he knows. There is no doubt who his father is—besides the looks, he also got the hard fists and the mean temper. He’s used them more than once for his sisters’ sake, but he’s in middle school now, and though JoJo talks tough, she and Millie take after Mama, small and frail-bodied. He can’t keep them safe always. At the moment, with his nose and other, less visible bruises, he doesn’t feel much good for any fighting at all.

JoJo tugs at her hair with a sneer. “You think Daddy’ll notice?”

Even though it hurts, Biff snorts. He’s pretty sure the old man just thinks Mama’s side of the family is magic, able to straighten their hair at will.

“Yeah,” she says. “I don’t know why she cares. Ain’t like I look anymore like him with a perm. Perm can’t make you pretty.”

“I think you’re pretty.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause I got permed,” she sniffs.

“Nah. You’d look good with a dead poodle on your head.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “What about a dead possum?”

“Sure, dead possum.”

“A porcupine?”

“Maybe.”

“Aw!”

“Kidding. Porcupine’s fine.”

She laughs, and then it doesn’t matter which side of the family they take after, because he’s the only one who can make her laugh like that talking about dead animals.

She leans her permed head on his good shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t hate you.”

He fluffs her hair, but it won’t do that anymore. “I know.”