Freedoms deepest secret

"You shouldn't do it, Lucy," my mother droned, her delicate fingers entangled in my hair. It seemed unfair for her to confess this so late. After all, I had been sitting in the black leather chair as she spoke. "I've already paid," I responded; it was untrue but a desperate attempt to get her off my back. I'd worked all summer to save up enough money to get my hair cut. It hung past my knees—the edges frizzed from years of pinning it up, and when the sun hit it just right, the color resembled thick marmalade. My mother sighed; she knew she couldn't change my 15-year-old rebellious mind but refused to stand by and watch me do it guiltlessly. The room's once prosaic interior lightens as a woman stumbles in. "Hi ladies!" she chimes, her golden roots fade into espresso ends; that lay in perfect curls and dance as she tilts her head while she talks. She askes our names, shakes our hands, and tells us about herself.

Once a college student, deciding to follow her dream. Nearly at her bachelor's degree, a bit of goal chasing was much overdue. My mother and I responded with bits and pieces of a run-through of our day. "and after breakfast, we went shopping then..." she nods and smiles her teeth were perfect, where the edge of one straight tooth ended another began and so on to form her honest grin. Soon the introductions were over, and it was time to admit it was true. "Id like to go short; right about here," I motion above my shoulders. I watched my mother's heart drop to her stomach as she pushes my hand down. For just a moment, I notice how similar our hands are. It's not that I, by any means, hate my mother. I love her dearly. She simply doesn't understand that I don't want to be the religious woman the rest of my family is. "we can do that!" the hairdresser's silky sweet voice breaks me from my trance and my mother's hand leaves mine. "are you looking to do a color change?

"Absolutely!"

"excellent, do you have an idea of what you want? We've got books on the lobby table your welcome to look through. 

"oh, that's right," I chirp and motion to my mother for the book we carried from the all-glass lobby to the room decorated to resemble the woman who transforms people in it. I point to an image of a thin warm skinned woman with molasses-colored hair. "this cut and color would be perfect!" she sang. 

Before I knew it, I watched my reflection no longer resembling me getting her hair blow-dried; my mother had not been in the room since the first cut was made. The woman and I talked the rest of the time about my religious raisings and how I didn't particularly appreciate following such outrageous rules. 

Buckled into my mother's suburban, I waited for her to look at me to no avail. My pentecostal mother was utterly distraught about what I'd done. A pentecostal woman's hair is her protector, her savior. She keeps it pinned back into a tight bun and will not let it down until she's met the man she loves. A moment so critical it couldn't be replaced with anything. 

I had cut my hair, my protector, and I was sure my mother would never forgive me. 

As I returned home, no longer the person I was, I addressed the room. A deep velvet couch that years ago was navy is now closer to black. Graced by a man with peppered hair and a matching beard, he was relatively unfazed by the change being the only one besides my mother who knew what I had planned to do "looks nice," he spits, eyes never leaving the television. My sisters crowd the archway between the living room and kitchen. The three of them beholding the same yellow-orange hair and shocked faces. They had no clue the virtual sin I had gone to commit. "Hey," I croak, uneasy from the looks I'm receiving. I guess my mother isn't the only one who doesn't plan to forgive me. My entire life was full of events that drove me mad. in the three years between my first disappointing event and moving out in a blind rage; I had overcome masses of boundaries. I got a job rather than a working lover, learned to control my finances, began refusing to aid my father, and fought with my mother many times. The words tend to march in my head when I sleep. "why do you have to be such a headache, lucy?" my mother would yell. 

On the day of my eighteenth birthday, I spent the early hour of the morning awake before the sun. I found my pentecostal raising peeking out as a packed my most essential items into a duffle bag. Pants rolled, and the shirts folded so the neckline shows. Try as I might, there are things my mother taught me that I'd never be able to shake. Suddenly I'm a child again, laughing with my mother and sisters folding laundry. My mother's gentle tone sweet, drenched with nectar; she would tell me bit by bit how to fold each piece of clothing, and as I got frustrated, she would stroke my golden hair and place her hands on mine, forming muscle memory I'd never forget. Our hands so similar a piece of her I'd have with me forever. I'm back; my skin coated with goosebumps, my face graced with tears. I force the nostalgic feeling away and continue. Little did my religiously blind family know I didn't plan to stay past sunset on my eighteenth birthday. Leaving my childhood home would be saddening, but the freedom I would finally feel would be incomparable. As I sit around an oak kitchen table and exchange my childhood stories with my mother and sisters, I couldn't help but notice the missing piece that was my father. In my entire life, I had likely made eye contact with him 200 times. "Want to come to tell stories with us?" I call to my father over my shoulder. No answer. I look to my mother, her eyes swimming with empathy. She understood what it was like for a man to be so uninvolved; after all, it was her husband. She places her hand on my knee and looks deep into my eyes, and without words, she apologizes on my useless father's behalf. I kissed my mother goodbye. No comments were exchanged as I couldn't dare say it to her face. I allowed a small piece of paper on my entirely made bed to do the job.

Mom,

As much as I hate to leave so unannounced, it feels like my only way out. For all my life, you've taught me only what I could do to run a household. I learned on my own how to stay alive. Sure, I can cook and clean, but how do I change a tire? How do I balance a check? A parent's job is to prepare me for life, not prepare me to be a housewife. I'm leaving as an attempt to learn to fend for myself. I know it will be challenging, but it can't be any harder than eighteen years of being a housewife. 

I love you, Lucy 

And just like that, I was off. In the passenger seat of my boyfriend's car, what was once a book of conversion is now the place where two star-crossed lovers set their scene. Unfortunately, we didn't visually fit the part. We weren't royalty, and we were far from starcrossed—just a basic brunette church boy who felt the same way about me that I did about him. The best part, though, is that he hated the church just as much as I did; in fact, the night after I cut my hair, I fell in love with him. We hid behind his father's F150, and he kissed me, his fingertips brushing my burgundy bob behind my ear.  

We moved into a little apartment in mid-town and spent winters by the fireside and springs in the rain. About a year in, I picked up painting as an attempt to fight my deep-rooted homesickness. My art often resembled large open landscapes kissed with the symptoms of the early morning and drenched in the waking sun's color. Our relationship consisted of an endless loop of jay coming home, wiping the paint from my face, and kissing me lovingly. No matter how repetitive our young lives got, we never fell out of love, no matter what it took. Slow dancing in the kitchen in the early morning, watching the sunrise, picnics. Our love burned a hot flame of an everlasting candle. 

If the resentment I had for my mother was art, then mine and Jay's love was my muse; while my muse still lived, the art began to die; I often caught my homesickness whisper into my ear as a cooked or cleaned. I missed my mother. By now, she had left my father, and my sisters had grown and gone; she was growing old alone. And as if my heart was a manic pianist, I was gone jay on my am and bag in hand I found myself crying on a fight I don't remember booking—symphony blaring in my head. 

As I tore into my mother's apartment, I nearly fell; I was entirely drained. My mother pulled me into her, allowing me to drink in her energy. My soul was starving. Hers offered sympathy and forgiveness. I pull out of her grasp and grip her shoulders with all the apology my body can offer. Her eyes dismiss my feeling promising; she understood. 

"Why didn't you ever tell me? I beg

"I knew you would find out, and you deserved to do it alone, Lucy; you're so much like me; I knew from the start you could do it."

my mother ignores the hand my lover has extended and pulls him into a deep embrace. "I've heard all about you," she says, "I'm Lucile." 

"momma," I offer, "freedom has a secret."

"I know, my love."

"It's so lonely."