Cut Short

Cut Short

All objects of beauty belong on display, her mother says. That means beautiful clothes should not sit in closets, women with statuesque figures should be perched on heels, and beautiful girls should be primed, tagged and presented to as many people as possible. They should be pushed down catwalks, judged and fed to ravenous competitive mothers.
She watches as her silhouette takes shape inside the pale moonlit looking glass and then picks up the scissors. She would do penance for the mistakes of Anne-Marie her sister, and Charlene, her mother. Sure, they seem innocent now, breathing deeply in their beds, but how long would such complacency last? Come morning, they would get up, and let vanity cut away bigger chunks of themselves, offering them to strangers who wouldn't know what to do with them.
Her mother is insufferable, with her preening, regal ways. Always pushing them through dance and music drills meant to bring home pageant awards. It works. Their bedrooms were crammed with gilded statues, ribbons and framed, poster-sized photos of them glad-handing with an assortment of ward heelers and other local notables. And when they are not competing, her mother gloats as strangers worship their beauty. She wanted rest from this gift, rest for herself and her older sister Anne-Marie. Strangers admired her the most, whose skin is brown and flawless like milk chocolate right after a chocolatier smooths it one last time on a marble board. Some of them dared to take hold of her delicate chin, turning it from left and right to gasp at the superior evenness of her features. Most of all, her brown hair almost grazes her elbows and gets blonde streaks in the summer sun.
Cheyenne muffles a giggle at the sight of her head, now enlarged by a helmet of giant hair curlers. She unfurls a couple of locks, grasps them in a fist and cuts them, just beyond her thumb.
As the two locks drift to the cold tile floor, Cheyenne thinks of their father, their only reliable respite from their mother's obsession, and a distant one. He lives a half continent away, in Miami, but still makes his presence known, especially when their mother preps them for another contest. Sometimes Charlene’s spending habits result in poisoned phone calls from Florida. Several months ago, their parents’ chat went like this:
“Charlene. Why did the girls’ bank balance shrink by $400 this week? I just wrote out checks for music classes and brand new clothes.”
“There’s something called the Sister Pageant, David. Amber and Cheyenne are going to compete as a team against 14 other girls. The money for the registration, costumes, and practice have to come from somewhere, you know.”
“Sister Pageant! It’s just an excuse for country club moms to parade their girls in front of each other. Take them out of that contest.”
“They want to do this,” Charlene slammed the refrigerator door shut, just as Amber was reaching inside.
“Didn’t you just force Anne-Marie through some model search? She sounded gaunt when I last spoke to her.”
“How does somebody sound gaunt, David?”
There are no gaunt youngsters – real or imagined – around their father. During his twice yearly visits to Kingston, or their breaks with him in Florida, they spend long days at skating rinks. Cheyenne is never rebuked for scraping her knees during raids on guinep trees. Amber comes alive when she and her father race each other at the gym, the track at the park, and on the beach. If one of their beachfront races happens in Jamaica, Cheyenne picks at sea grapes during heats.
It will be all right, the cutting, Cheyenne tells herself, as the blades crunch slowly through her hair. It should be all right with Amber, too. She, Cheyenne knows, wants to do something else with her time. Three months ago, when Charlene started preparations for the pageant, Amber talked Charlene into letting her practice with the track team at school, saying ‘it’s a good way for me to stay slim.’
Surely, their father can sense Amber’s growing hunger to run, to get away, and he knows about everything else that goes on at home. Perhaps he watches from the shrouded corners of the house, where he can spy their every argument, pouts and occasional smiles. He doesn’t want either of them to be dragged to that pageant by their hair, either.
After the last lock falls, Cheyenne rubs her head. Now, standing in the mirror, she is entranced by its roundness. She thinks she resembles that white woman with the guitar, the one that she sees on American channels snarling into a microphone.
“... hate myself for lovin’ you!” Cheyenne thinks she has a pretty good snarl and strums imaginary guitar strings to let the mirror know, to feel it.
Satisfied that she has disrupted her mother’s plans for tomorrow, Cheyenne flops noisily into bed. That causes Amber, the light sleeper, to stir. What are you up to, she asks groggily.
“Nothing, brownin’!” Normally, calling Amber ‘brownin’ the street name for a light-skinned girl, would get a person’s cheeks boxed or doused all over with water. But Amber loves her sleep too much to do anything more than chide her sister half-heartedly.
In the morning, two slender palms turn Cheyenne’s face into the sunlight. Then, a pair of hands holds her wrists and pulls her up to sit. She opens her eyes, and smiles wearily at the face that is just like hers, only six years older.
“Cheyenne?”
“Yeees?”
“You cut your hair?”
“Umm hmm.”
Her sister reddens. She runs her hands over Cheyenne’s stubby hair, looks around the bed and searches the sheets. What does she expect to find? Then Amber touches her temple, and paces the floor.
Amber is about to speak when Charlene breezes through their bedroom door and swishes across the room. Just the kind of entrance she wants them to make on the stage that afternoon. She already has the sage colored curtains open before she notices Cheyenne’s hair, sticking up like porcupine needles.
Charlene descends on her head instantly, frisking the same nightgown and sheets that Amber had moments ago, then broadening her search to the floor. Just as Charlene finally towers over Cheyenne’s bed, the girl begins to rethink her decision.
“What happened?”
Amber summons her breath “Cheyenne cut off all of her hair last night, mummy.”
“I can see that. But why?”
Because Charlene has a remarkably menacing look in her eyes, one that Cheyenne has never evoked before (at least not so severely) the girl forgets how to handle her mother, and remarks that it is her hair.
Thus begins Charlene’s almighty shrieking. Whose hair? Did you put it there? Did you care for it and grow it? I want to know what makes this nine-year-old think she can cut off all her own hair! You too ungrateful! None of the other mothers were as creative as me, hard working as me --everybody else is singing or dancing or some other corny shit, but not I! I’m the one who came up with a sister skit for the Sister Pageant. Anybody else think of that? No! And now look at you!
Amber barely manages to keep standing at ease through Charlene’s hysterics. Only after her mother goes to the girls’ closet, pulls Cheyenne’s costume out and flings it across the room does she speak.
“It’s not that bad, Mummy. Can’t we just forget about it?” Amber whimpers.
“No, because I’m going to fix it,” she grabs Amber by the arm and steers her toward the bathroom.
“And because of this, you can forget about running track after school...”
“What! I didn’t do anything!”
“Mi no kyah!” I don’t care, Charlene howls in island patois, no doubt the type of language with which rebellious girls – not well-bred ladies – ought to be dealt.
Two hours later, Cheyenne is in a panic, panting and writhing in Charlene’s arms, until her mother plants her firmly on a chair in the girls’ bathroom. Behind the chair, a woman stands armed with a comb, nimble fingers and a bag of artificial hair.
“Either you stop this foolishness now, or I’ll give you something to cry for!” Charlene vows.
Cheyenne surrenders. She feels the stylist’s comb part her hair, then her fingers fashioning cornrows. Then rage is sown into Cheyenne as the stylist stitches silky black hair onto the cornrows. How could this happen, after she went through all that trouble? Charlene and Amber were supposed to appreciate her sacrifice and do something about it, not cover it up! They didn’t appreciate her.
Several hours after that, hair lingers near Cheyenne’s ears, but it doesn’t tickle like before. It moves, but doesn’t dance. It looks strong and shiny, but does not stand up and demand attention. Up until yesterday, everyone remarked that Cheyenne’s hair was so lively. Even when she stood perfectly still, her hair swayed and fanned across her shoulders like a cat’s tail. Now, the only sign of life past the tip of her forehead is rage. She stands near the front door with a backpack, ready to become a preteen from the 1800s.
Amber trots down the stairs and stands across the vestibule from her little sister. Rather than look at Cheyenne’s hair, she busies herself adjusting the garment bag over her shoulder and making sure all her makeup and supplies are in place.
Then the sound of mules, clacking under Charlene’s weight, approaches the foyer. Charlene pauses at the door and squares her shoulders. She pats down the bulky duffel bag hanging from her shoulder, making sure she has whatever she needs to ensure top prizes for her girls. Charlene asks Amber for the fourth time that morning if she wouldn’t eat something before they go.
“Mommy, later. I said I’m not hungry!” Amber says.
"Liar,” Cheyenne mumbles.