Ponytail Personality

“How do you know Alexa has something to do with it?” Camilla asks with a quizzically raised brow.

“Oh, Alexa has everything to do with it!” I hiss through my teeth, focusing frustratedly on the cluttered space of the room.

What are we talking about? You’ll find out later.

“Right now ain’t the time,” I answer to you in a whisper.

“Who are you talking to?” Camilla tilts her head at me like a puzzled puppy.

“Oh my goodness! You’re still here? Scatter already! Dissolve! Please?” I try my best to hold it in, you know, my pressing urge to tell on you.

And she obeys. For once.

But the day started without a glitch… that is Camilla.

Oops, did I do this too soon? No twist already?!

Okay-okay, let me try this thing one more time…

23:30 p.m. Just came out of the movie. Did like it. Even cried. It’s Thursday. But not for long. And honestly, I don’t get why they call the night after Friday “Friday night.” That night belongs to Saturday. Just my unpopular opinion, no need to stone me.

I did the classic: bought the movie ticket on my lunch break at work. Finished the shift on time, came late for the movie.

“We’re closed! Aren’t we closed?” Apparently the manager asks the employee who I’m familiar with (not on first name terms), the one who is selling me a large fizzy drink at the moment.

“Only card payments… it’s fine,” is a casual response,  strained controlled evenness in voice.

I brighten up at that. It’s the last viewing of the day. Don’t turn me down, will you? 

“What did you watch?” I ask, knowing this employee takes advantage of the place they work at… and of the staff discount.

“Colombo.”

-“Ooh, I wanted to, but I heard it’s bad.”

-“What are you going for?”

-“Senorita Storm.”

“ Nice… but I also heard bad things.”

-”I know! I’m going to check it out,” I said as my words of partition.

Dark and spacious cinema 9 with screen x and too many rows of seats to ascend through. I get to my lit up letter on the floor. My seat is J-11. I see two dark figures at the beginning of the row. Literally on two first seats. I say my “excuse me,” only to follow it closely with “it’s right here,” when I see my seat occupied with upper garments of the two formerly introduced figures. 

“Really?” a man asks me, while hesitantly clearing my seat. I don’t reply. I hear a little commotion between the two. Honestly, I sit down while mentally getting ready to be left alone on the entire row. But… they stay. I don’t know why. Either the shuffle is too much trouble or they think I will move. With all due regard, I paid 10.99. Just saying.

I am twenty minutes late, and I didn’t miss anything. Courtesy of all new movie trailers indulging themselves for almost half an hour long. After some minutes, I can identify that to my right is a man and to his right is a woman. His woman… judging by the way she snuggles up to him occasionally, sliding her arm under his, and doing so slowly.

I just slurp on my drink when it gets a bit uncomfortable. I mean, do we have to sit this close? I feel like a side chick to this couple’s open relationship, and all because someone sat on the row with only one seat taken. Did they even know to leave the seat for their coats, or was it just a lucky coincidence that the clothes were there and I didn’t have to make an entire person stand up and vacate my seat for me? Did you catch the emphasis on “my seat?” Regardless, I hold on to the thought that they ambushed me… and not the other way around. 

The movie in a nutshell: a girl with a ponytail personality discovers she’s been wearing her ponytail this high this whole time for a reason. Apparently, she’s a superhero. And it can only be explained away by her romance-novel-main-character first name and perpetual singledom. And ponytail, did I mention the ponytail?

So… totally addicting portrayal of female power, single-heartedly apart from feminism. Those things are no fog to me because I’m an absolute fan.

Yet before that, trivial discussions of movies at work.

“Twenty Days of Hay isn’t a movie for women,” I spit out, passionately gesturing at Conal.

“Yeah, I didn’t watch it. And Chris didn’t either,” Conal throws back at me, making a point.

“Nikita, tell them that Twenty Days is, like, the ultimate movie for male gaze!” I start to rope in the only other female coworker, as I can tell I am sinking.

“Uhm… actually, it is more like it was made for women, don’t you think?” Nikita responds, clearly not thinking it all the way through to help my hidden feminist agenda.

“Like, didn’t you like the movie?” Conal comes back at me, painting me guilty still.

“I didn’t like the movie!” I raise my voice, lying.

“Wait, didn’t you, like, read the book as well?” Nikita asks me for good measure in a very untimely manner.

I break down chuckling.

“I didn’t like the movie!” I protest one last time, out of my breath from chuckling progressively.

“I rewatch it every year, but I don’t like that movie! The book is better,” I make a splash with ripples of laughter to that confession and the topic is closed. Or wait a minute… not really.

“Wasn’t it, like, a love story?” Chris tries to be friendly and support my love for all things fall.

“Yes, it was! Because they married at the end and had a baby,” Nikita chimes in to upvote it as well, “It’s definitely nothing like the movie 541. That is surely for males.”

-”Oh my God! Yes! That movie is awful!” I finally rise up again, like a phoenix out of ashes.

“There’s no redeeming that for any female. Ever,” I said triumphantly, “Just the airplane scene alone is so telling,” I conclude, recalling the antics of that scene, and Nikita is like, “Oh no! You’re right! Not the airplane scene!” We both erupt in giggles of second hand embarrassment for the experience.

After the movie though, the washroom is my port of call. I know to refresh myself with a spritz of Alien and a red tinted lip balm. I also know I want to have music on my walk home. I ready my headphones and fumble the bag for my phone. Wash my hands twice for the spilled drink. And walk out. I double coffee from Starbucks as a companion at lunchtime. But now I brace myself for the intake of some much needed radio waves. I shimmy to songs that reek of New York, but only after all the zebra crossings. I nurse the mood all the way home until it lands on the windowsill in my bedroom. 

But before that I locate a five pence coin at my feet. Twice. Talk about a deja vu.

And it brings me here. So, I ask myself, “Have I ever worn my hair in a ponytail?” And the same old me answers, “Nah, I’m more of a ballet bun kind of girl.”

“Just kidding,” Camilla resounds from somewhere inside of me.