Girls Like Me

Sensitive content: language, smoking

“What if I write a story that does not mean anything? Who cares? Nobody.” I pondered. “Well, someone might. Maybe it would matter to other girls like me.”

I walked seven blocks from my apartment. Gran’s house looked abandoned—peeling paint, the lawn overgrown and weedy. The door barely clung to its hinges, but the lock gleamed shiny new. I knew she was home as soon as I smelled her burning cigarette. I called out, “Hi Gran, it’s just me” as I hurried towards the back porch where I knew she would be sitting, absentmindedly picking the stuffing from the old worn chair with her left hand. Gran smokes with her right—her fingers orange up to the second knuckle, the ashtray overflowing. The porch reeked of smoke and mildew. The dusty TV blared a commercial for shampoo.

I come to Gran’s every week to wash her hair. I think she looks forward to it even though she hates having her hair washed. Says it makes her cold for two days. I had brought a hairdryer hoping that would help. I got the hairdryer at Joe’s Pawn Shop on Front Street that morning. I traded it for a plant stand I picked up on my way home last night. Someone on Third Avenue had left it on the sidewalk

“I like that color on you,” Gran remarked, eyes still fixed on the TV. “But it’s so stuffy today. Aren’t you hot?”

“No Gran, I’m fine.” I wore a burnt orange turtleneck sweater and a long jean skirt. I always wear a turtleneck when I come to Gran’s. Even with her bad eyesight the tattoo on my pale neck would break her heart. “Fuck Off” it says in thick black script. She was the only person I hid it from. I hid a lot of things from her-where I lived, what I did, my usual attire, my friends, and other things. It would break her heart to know the truth. She told me she is afraid of freaky people; you know, girls like me. Don’t misunderstand me, people don’t ‘like’ me. Grandmothers like mine are afraid of people like me—skinny girls who “dress like whores”, girls with nasty worded tattoos, girls who walk down the street smoking cigarettes, eyes glued to the sidewalk.

There was no one I trusted. Sometimes I thought of putting a tattoo on the other side of my neck that boldly said, “Trust No One”. 

“Sweetie, did you lock the door?” Her voice was thin and quivered.

“Yes.” I knew why she asked. Last week she lost her box of old heirloom silver. The week before that she could not find the jewelry box with her mother’s rings in it, something always went missing. My father believed it was the “low-life” neighbor kids. He thought too many people knew how to get into Gran’s house. That’s why he had driven all the way into town to put on the new lock.

“Ready?” I asked, but I knew what she would say. “In just a minute. Turn that TV off. Let’s sit a bit first.” I settled at the table beside her. She chatted away in her husky voice about TV shows and the weather. I listened. She added that my father missed me. I told her how busy I was and promised I would try to visit him soon.

After about half an hour, I removed all the hairpins, gently unraveled her braids, and untangled her hair with the dirty pink comb. She loved that big comb. Said it was the only one that didn’t hurt. I think it was because it was a gift from her daughter, my long-dead mom. When she was ready, Gran leaned heavily on me as we shuffled into her bedroom. Last time she was in the hospital they let her bring home a plastic blow-up tub for washing hair in bed, which was inconvenient as hell, but it worked ok. I got two buckets from the kitchen, one with water and one to catch the water. Just like usual we spilled water all over the place. It was a lot of trouble to do it this way, but there was no way she could bend over a sink.

Joy, who came from the Senior Aid Center to help her bathe twice a week, won’t wash Gran’s hair. She said, “Ma’am when you cut that hair, I will wash it for you. I don’t have time to wash three feet of stringy hair.” Gran suspects Joy eats with the heirloom forks and wears the stolen rings.

There was a sentimental pleasure in having my small hands in this woman’s thick hair. It was like I could somehow feel her deeper and be safe in the connection. After washing, I wrapped her head in a threadbare towel, then I practically carried her back out to the porch where she immediately lit up a cigarette. I brushed her hair while she smoked. I dried her hair, braided it, and put it back in a loose bun. She was grateful but said, “I still feel cold to the bone.” She patted my hand and noticed my red nail polish. “Clashes with the orange sweater, my dear girl.”

Back in her bedroom, I wiped up the water, cleaned up the buckets and put everything away. Alone, I looked around my grandmother’s room, the light from the window carried a beam of dust. On the dresser a pearl necklace- fragile yet solid in my hand.

“Bye Gran, see you next week.” I called out as I left. “Bye sweetie.” She replied, already back to the position I had found her.

When I was a couple blocks away, I touched the necklace in my pocket. I breathed deeply, “You’re right Gran, it is so fucking hot.” I pulled off my sweater and skirt. Wearing my red lace-up corset and skintight ripped jeans, I lit a cigarette and started walking to Joe’s Pawn Shop on First Street. My dark script tattoo, “Fuck Off”, proudly displayed.