Journal Camp 2020 has begun! Our first session was ah-mazing in so many ways. By tradition, I will post out-takes from the best of the best. It’s raw, it’s real, it’s #journalcamp2020
She had grown restless and one night she pulled out the kitchen shears and went to work on the haircut she had paid too much for almost two months ago and now feared would be lost forever. It wasn’t as easy as it looked. She had sat in beauty shop chairs for decades, resenting the cost while loving the results. “How hard could it be?” she said. “I’ve got an eye for style,” she said. She misjudged the accuracy a beautician’s license conferred, and ended up with the look of mange — bald spots and choppy lines. House arrest might be a blessing after all. In the weeks following her home cut, She remembered the home perm she had given herself when they lived in Phoenix. That was a treatment from which there was no return, no passing Go, no collecting $200. She had been forced to live with the humiliation of a poodle perm until her hair grew long enough to cut out the frizzy parts. She broke up with her stylist then, unable to face her in that bubblegum pink salon with a helmet of straw.
The hands on the clock said 1:15. A half hour later, they said 1:15. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, he said. He was full of platitudes like that. This is going to be a long meeting, she thought.
The wheels on the bus go round and round. The hands of the clock stay frozen in time. It would be 1:15 forever. She would sit in this chair. She would shed one billion skin cells onto the plush Persian carpet covering the floor of his office. The sun would move across the sky. Shadows would fall through the plantation shutters making slanting lines that would stretch for eternity. Time was a modest maiden who would sit quietly waiting for permission to bloom.
She would turn to bones in the chair, bones would turn to powder, and 1:15 would mark the place int he vastness of the time-space continuum where she slipped the wheel.