Amber Brown Sees Red (7 page)

I reread my dad’s latest letter for the eightyzillionth time.

The last line is “Things will be perfect when I come back and my little girl and I can make up for lost time.”

How can we make up for lost time? I’m not the same little girl that I was when he left.

What can I do to make it “perfect”?

It’s so hard.

If it’s “perfect” for my dad, I know that it won’t be “perfect” for my mom.

And what about me, Amber Brown?

How can it be “perfect” for me?

I was such a little kid when I thought what would be “perfect” would be my parents getting back together.

When I went to England over the summer, I still thought that maybe they would get back together.

I can’t believe that was only a few months ago.

Everything feels so different.

I pick up my gorilla.

“Gorilla,” I say, “before the divorce, my parents fought. Then when Dad moved to Paris, they didn’t have anything to do with each other .... so no fighting.... At least not until I was supposed to visit my dad in Paris.... Then there was some trouble.... Now that Dad is coming back, the fighting has started again ... and they act like I’m a little kid ... that I’ll just go along with what each of them wants.... How can I do that? They both want different things.”

The gorilla, as always, says nothing.

I continue. “It’s terrible. When they got divorced, they worked out who got what.... I’m the only thing that they couldn’t give to just one of them ... and now that Dad’s moving back ... they want to split me.... They call it shared custody, but I feel split.”

The hairy ape still says nothing.

I get mad at him. “You don’t understand. There’s only one of you. What am I going to do when I go to Dad’s and I need to talk to you and you’re here? I can’t carry you back and forth, take you to school with me. It would look really dumb for me, a fourth grader, to take a dumb stuffed animal to school.”

I continue. “What am I supposed to do? Sometimes I feel like I’m the grown-up, the one who has to take care of both of them. Sometimes they want me to be so grown up .... and then I’m supposed to be their little girl..... Each of their little girl.... You just don’t understand, you ape.... I’m their little girl.... You’re a little gorilla.... You’re never going to have to change .... but I do have to change ... because of my growth spurt ... because my parents are spurting ... or exploding, or something.”

I feel so mad.

I throw the gorilla across the room.

“I’m sorry.” I pick him up. “It’s not your fault, I know.”

Putting him on my dresser, I look at myself in the mirror.

I can see more of myself in the mirror.

Either the dresser is shrinking or I’ve gotten taller.

I can look at myself clearly ... and I don’t like what I see.

My stupid ponytails look so baby.

How are my parents going to take me seriously if I look like a little kid?

I rush downstairs.

“I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair.” Walking into the kitchen, I stand in front of my mother, who is making breakfast.

“Let me guess,” she says, putting bacon into the pan. “You hate your hair.”

I nod. “I hate my hair.”

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong. You don’t like your hair.”

“Mom. Stop joking. I’m serious. I hate my hair.” I hold it up on either side of my head. “This way I look like a horse with tails on each side of my face.”

“It looks cute.” My mom smiles. “I’ve always thought it’s looked cute like that. You’ve been wearing your hair that way since you were little.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Since I was little..... But now I’m in fourth grade and no one wears her hair like this anymore.”

“It’s so cute,” she repeats.

“And look at this.” I let my hair down. “I have split ends and the bangs are covering my eyes. I’m having a bad hair day..... No, actually I’m having a bad hair life.”

“Let me guess.You want to do something different with your hair.” She starts making an omelette.

I nod.

My bangs cover my eyes.

She sighs. “I love the ponytails.”

“Mom. I’m in the fourth grade .... remember ? ! Nobody wears her hair like this anymore ... and even if they did, I don’t want to anymore.” I put a piece of bacon into my mouth.

She sighs. “You’re growing up so fast.”

I, Amber Brown, hope she remembers that when she and my dad make decisions about my life. I hope that she realizes that it’s my hair, it’s my life ... and I have a say in what happens.

She sighs again. “OK. After breakfast, I’ll call the salon and see if they can fit you in. While I get my hair trimmed and colored, maybe you can get a haircut.”

“I’d like to get more than ‘a hair’ cut.... I’d like to get all of them cut.” I grin at her.

She puts our breakfast on plates, we eat, and then we head off to the salon.

I’m ready.

Walking into the salon, I look around and try to figure out what I want to do with my hair.

Do I want them to trim it, just at the edges, to get rid of the split ends?

Do I want them to cut it shoulder length so that I can still put it up with ponytails and still be able to use scrunchies?

I, Amber Brown, don’t know.

I just know that I want to get my hair cut.

I sit down in the waiting area.

My mom and I look at fashion magazines and try to pick out a haircut.

She points to one picture. “How about that look?”

Shaking my head, I make a face. “No. No. No. I’ll look like an eggshell with bird poop on it.”

“No you won’t.” My mom playfully taps my arm with the magazine. “You’ll look cute.”

Cute.

A woman comes up and takes me over to the sink to wash my hair.

Torture. It’s total torture.

I’ve got to sit in this big uncomfortable chair with my head leaning back in this groove.

The hair washer must have learned how to shampoo at the School of Hair Pain.

“Stop squirming,” she tells me.

Stop killing my head, I think, but I’m afraid to say it out loud in case she scrubs my head even harder.

Finally, I’m shampooed, cream-rinsed, and let free.

Even though there is a towel around my hurting neck, the water is dripping down my back. It’s dripping all the way down. It’s making my underpants wet.

Sitting in the styling area, I wait for the haircut guy to come over.

I, Amber Brown, am getting very nervous.

He, my mom, and I talk about what to do.

I just want my hair to look wonderful. I want to look like I can handle anything and should be listened to.

“Trust me,” he says, starting to cut.

Halfway through the cut, I realize that he is cutting it too short.

“Stop!” I yell.

It’s too late.

I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair. I hate my hair.

I, Amber Brown, hate my hair.

I make one of my first grown-up decisions and it’s a disaster.

I wonder if the rest of my life is going to be like this, if I can ever trust myself again.

The haircutting guy, who I now refer to as Hack, ruined my hair.

He cut it so that the rest of my hair is even with my ears..... My bangs don’t even touch my eyebrows. And my eyebrows are going to catch cold.