Hair Flipper

As clumps of my waist-long, straight brown hair fell out in the shower on New Year's Day, 1998, I was thinking, "If I have a bald spot, I'm going to sue her!" Crystal, the tattooed girl who tore out my hair was technically an adult at 18 and I was 17, so this logic made sense to me, even though I had no knowledge or means of suing anyone. Crystal regularly smirked and made snide remarks about my hair, personality, and everything in between. I took my mom’s advice and ignored it as much as possible because, “She is just jealous and insecure. It really has nothing to do with you.”

I wanted to hang out with this guy Andrew on New Year's Eve, but I knew my mom would never allow it — he was 23. So I lied, of course. My best friend Ali and I would go to a party at Danielle's parents' trailer. Mom agreed, saying, "Rita, I'm trusting you to make good decisions." But I had no intention of going to that party.

I got as dolled up as one can in the frozen Allegheny mountains — jeans, form-fitting sweater, boots, and signature Pantene hair. I needed to look good and act mature if I was going to blend in with Andrew and his 20-something buddies.

They had idolized my older brother, Jesse, who died five years prior in a car accident.

Jesse was scrappy, a wrestler, with a Tom Cruise air. At 18, he joined the Navy and escaped our rural bubble. It wasn't until two cops brought his wallet to the door of our shabby apartment that my mom and I discovered Jesse had made a surprise visit to the area.

As the oblivious kid sister, I was a stand-in-turned-conquest for Andrew.

I drove my '91 Beretta, blasting Nirvana, to pick up Ali. Her curly orange locks steamed in the frigid night air. After dropping her at Danielle's party, I headed a few miles up the road to Andrew's. He lived with his gram and pap in a big house, built back when coal miners populated the region.

Only vaguely acquainted with Andrew and the three or four other guys at his house, I felt childish, sputtering awkward sentence fragments, avoiding eye contact.

I retreated to a sunken brown couch with a Solo cup to work on blending in; or, better yet, disappearing entirely. I chugged the skunky beer in an unsuccessful attempt to chill out.

The guys whispered and smirked lasciviously. Other than that, Andrew ignored me for several hours while I nervously twirled my hair in silence.

Eventually the ball dropped, his buddies left, and there we were - a shark circling its prey.

I'd had a couple long-term boyfriends, but they were my age and known them for years. This was entirely different. Andrew was clearly capitalizing upon his handsome face and unassuming manner for the sake of debauchery. But I didn't know how to say, "Okay, I'm going to go now. Bye." Instead, I became a lemming, and followed him to the bedroom.

My body went rigid when I saw handcuffs hanging from Andrew's bed post. At least I had the wherewithal to say no to that.

After a cringe-worthy, statutory rape-style encounter, I was relieved to escape, alight with adrenaline, hands shaking on the icy steering wheel.

Danielle's trailer was bulging with drunk teenagers, death metal, kegs, and cigarette smoke -- an assault on my already frazzled nerves.

I repeatedly told Ali it was time to go. She was taking her time, angry with me for choosing to go to Andrew's instead of being with our friends. These people were not really my friends, however. I was an outsider who came late to the party in sixth grade, and after my brother died, it was like I had the plague.

Smooshed between Ali and some random people playing cards, I tweaked with anxiety, flipping and twirling my hair like a crackhead. I'd twist a strand, then unconsciously flick it away from my face, not realizing it was whipping over my head.

I emerged from my trance when I overhead the mocking voices of Danielle and Crystal, their heavily lined eyes glaring at me. With exaggerated valley-girl accents, they flung their hair around dramatically while repeating, "Oh my God, look at me. I'm soo great. Look at meee." Then asking others, "Can you tell who we are?"

"Ali, I'll be in the car, please hurry up," I spat, and shoved past the horde. I slammed the door so hard that the trailer shook on its cinder block foundation.

Danielle immediately burst out behind me in true Jerry Springer fashion, hollering, "How dare you come to MY house and slam MY door. Nobody likes you! You're ugly and preppy! You think you're better than everybody!"

I turned to descend the slippery hill toward my car when, from left field, Crystal flung herself at me, wrapped her tattooed, nail-bitten fingers in my hair. "Nobody disrespects my friends!" she screamed at my face.

Taunting teens materialized around us, wooting, and cheering like they had front row seats to a Tyson fight. Two boys eventually tried to pull us apart, proceeding only to help Crystal to tear out more hair in her vice grip, then dropped us on the ground in a heap.

Time seemed to stop, and I saw each distorted face frozen as a snapshot, Crystal's contorted in rage. I slowly twined both hands into her hair like the beginning of a romantic kiss in a movie, and knocked her head on the Beretta's front bumper.

"ALI!! Let's go. NOW!!!" I yelled.

The car slid wildly down the icy driveway, and squealed onto the road. We remained in stunned silence until we got to Ali's house.

I should have rung in the New Year with Stephen King, Green Day, and my mom's cooking.

Studying my wet hair in the mirror the next day, I went limp with relief to find no bald spot. Upon returning to school, I'd gained a new nickname: "Scrappy," and a reputation that silently said, "BACK OFF."

I didn't mind the nickname, in fact, I kind of liked that it meant Crystal, Daniel, and company either got better at hiding their jeers, or they stopped altogether.