Girls Like Me

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I walked seven blocks from my apartment. Gran’s house looked abandoned—peeling paint, an overgrown, weedy lawn. The door barely clung to its hinges, but the lock gleamed, shiny and new. I knew she was home as soon as I smelled her burning cigarette. “Hi Gran, it’s just me,” I called out, hurrying toward the back porch where I knew she would be sitting, absentmindedly picking at the stuffing from her old, worn chair with her left hand. Gran smokes with her right—her fingers stained orange up to the second knuckle, the ashtray overflowing. The porch reeked of smoke and mildew, and 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 it done. She says it makes her cold for two days. I had brought a hairdryer, hoping that would help. I got it at Joe’s Pawn Shop on Front Street that morning, trading it for a plant stand I had found on the sidewalk on Third Avenue.

“I like that color on you,” Gran remarked, her 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, along with many other things—where I lived, what I did, my usual attire, my friends. It would break her heart to know the truth. She once told me she was afraid of “freaky people”—girls like me. Don’t misunderstand me; people don’t “like” me. Grandmothers like mine are afraid of girls like me—skinny girls who “dress like whores,” girls with nasty 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 proclaimed, “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 couldn’t find the jewelry box with her mother’s rings. Something always seemed to go missing. My father believed it was the “low-life” neighbor kids. He thought too many people knew how to get into Gran’s house, which is why he had driven all the way into town to install 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. Visiting my parents had never been easy. Now that my father had remarried it was completely intolerable for me. I felt like he didn't really care if I spent time with him or not.

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; she 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. The 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 but worked okay. I got two buckets from the kitchen—one with water and one to catch it. 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, wouldn’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 felt like I could somehow connect with her on a deeper level and feel safe. After washing, I wrapped her head in a threadbare towel, then practically carried her back out to the porch, where she immediately lit up a cigarette. I brushed her hair while she smoked, dried it, 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 the buckets, and put everything away. Alone, I looked around Gran’s room. The light from the window carried a beam of dust. On the bedside table was a small framed picture of Gran when she was about my age. She was dressed in a very risque evening gown and she was surrounded by men in tuxedoes. Why had I never seen this before? I wondered if Gran had put this out specifically for me to see. Maybe Gran had a more complicated life than I knew.

On the dresser lay 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 in the position I had found her.

When I was a couple of blocks away, I touched the necklace in my pocket. I breathed deeply. “You’re right, Gran, it is so 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.