Untangled

This story contains mild sexual content.

Susan turned the book over once. Twice. Questions multiplied inside her mind, but ever the mousey little one, she didn't put any of them to voice. She controlled her face, not allowing her brows to raise even a centimeter.

“Uh, thanks.” She bobbed slightly, hoping that would satisfy whatever social ritual this was.

Edith laughed; the ethereal twinkling sound was too musical to even be annoying. She tossed her perfect blonde hair, the waves bouncing and separating exactly how the Pantene commercials models’ bounced.

“Princess Diaries, She’s All That, Miss Congeniality? Read it. You can thank me later.” Edith turned on her overly high heels and floated back onto the sales floor.

“Give it here, love.” Andy snatched the book from Susan, flipping a few pages and chuckling under his breath. “Either she just paid you the largest compliment I've ever seen, or she wants to fight to the death.” He punctuated with a full-bodied laugh emanating from deep within his stomach. “The Hair Book: Care and Keeping Advice for Girls. Despite the fact that this was written for nine-year-olds, and you should be incredibly offended, this is a great book.” He returned the book to Susan and boldly pulled at one of her frizzy curls. “Princess Diaries. That’s who you are.”

Susan held his gaze incredulously. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Oh, honey. Tell me you’ve watched any of the movies Edith just mentioned.” He shook his head, tsking.

“I watched Star Wars last week.”

Andy let out a huge sigh.

“You have homework. Read the book. Watch The Princess Diaries. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He paused before her momentarily, placing a hand on her shoulder and looking deep into her eyes. He held her gaze for a count of ten. Twenty. Right as it was about to get weird, he smiled, removed his hand, and marched out of the break room.

What the fuck just happened, Susan thought, turning the book over one more time to see if there was something she’d missed on the back.

***

When she got home, unnerved by Edith and Andy's behavior, she plunked down on her vintage brown thrifted couch. It was ugly but comfortable, and it fit the saving the world through reuse vibe of her tiny apartment.

She opened the book and found that it, indeed, was written for nine-year-olds. Maybe Edith really did have a death wish, but Susan couldn't understand why she would pick her to fulfill it. If she’d given this book to Peggy, it would have been like throwing down a glove and thumbing her nose.

Susan had a regimen for hair care. Dandruff shampoo combined with conditioner, the kind that came in a mint green container. Then she brushed out her hair, still wet. And then she blew it dry—nothing to it. Perfect routine. Maybe that’s why she always felt compelled to keep her hair in a ponytail.

Susan read the book anyway, dismayed to learn that practically everything she did to her hair was precisely wrong. She sighed, thinking about how much time she’d have to devote to her hair if she planned to take care of it properly as the book instructed. Separate shampoo and conditioner. Leave in conditioner. A hair mask—what the hell was that? Curl cream? She had no idea where to get half of this. Maybe she’d ask Andy.

As she thought of Andy, she realized she’d need to at least attempt to appear knowledgeable about the movie he’d told her was “homework,” or he’d tease her incessantly about her lack of culture. She wondered if it was still in theaters and if she’d need to leave her apartment.

She looked up show times on her phone and came to the sorry realization that The Princess Diaries had come out in 2001 when she was still in elementary school. It was streaming on Disney+. Figured.

But she liked Andy, and he was an excellent salesman. If she wanted to be as successful on the floor as he always was, maybe she should take his advice for a change and watch the movie.

Did the movie transform Susan? No. But at least she knew what he was getting at with his comment about Edith’s actions being possibly a compliment and perhaps a death wish.

Susan stood in front of the bathroom mirror and looked over her frizz. She could see Anne Hathaway hiding behind her glasses, behind the puff that could be sleek curls. Was that her, though? Is that who she wanted to be? She was the introvert, the nerd, the unattractive one.

Her eyes drifted downward, taking in her reflection in a way she rarely allowed herself to. The oversized t-shirt she slept in draped over curves she habitually concealed beneath loose-fitting work clothes. She ran her hands through her unruly hair, tugging slightly at the roots, and was surprised at the pleasant tingle that traveled down her neck and spine. Something stirred within her—it’d been so long since she’d been with anyone. Maybe this transformation would be good. Loneliness did not look good on her. She quickly dropped her hands and stepped back from the mirror, uncertain about the direction of her thoughts.

In the morning, she bought a separate shampoo and conditioner.

***

“Frizz,” said Andy, pulling on one of the ringlets that Susan had, against her better judgment, let free this morning.

“I get it. You all think I could be some knock-out if I just cared for my wild mane. But. I have a morning routine, and standing in the shower and staring dumbly at the wall for five minutes while conditioner supposedly turns me into Anne Hathaway is not my idea of a riveting morning. So. No, thank you.” He’d gotten her monologuing this early in the morning? It was going to be a long day.

As she spoke, Susan unconsciously reached up to secure her tresses back into her customary ponytail, pulling it tighter, feeling the familiar tension against her scalp. The gesture wasn't lost on Andy, whose eyes followed her hand. She thought she saw a fascination behind his eyes that both excited and confused her.

“Oh, honey.” She was convinced the combination of that phrase and his signature pout was his favorite state of being. “There are so many things you could be doing in the shower during those five minutes.”

She looked at him quizzically, her lips pursing and eyes narrowing. She cocked her head and waited for him to elaborate.

"You know," he said, his voice suddenly smoldering as he leaned closer, "I've noticed something about people who keep their hair all bound up tight." His eyes flicked meaningfully to her ponytail. "They tend to keep everything locked down.” He gave her ponytail a sharp tug, which did unexpected things to her insides.

His tone turned playful again, but it was too late. Her pulse quickened and heat rushed to her face. He ticked off on his fingers as he recited. “You could do squats. You could listen to the news. You could dictate the great American novel.”

She shook her head, rolling her eyes as she laughed off the previous unexpected intimacy and at his stupid suggestions. Shower time was half awake time. She wouldn't be writing any novels.

“Aha!” His exclamation reverberated through the room like a ricocheting bullet, piercing her resolve and wrestling a small smile from her. “I have exactly the perfect activity for you. What time do you shower?”

“What?”

“The time. That you shower.” He looked at her as if he was talking to the nine-year-old for whom the Hair Book had been written.

“8 am. And I don't need help showering, thank you very much.”

“Yes, you most certainly do. I’ll be at your house tomorrow at 7:45 with muffins and coffee.”

The rest of the day was busy on the sales floor, and Susan put the next morning’s shower out of her mind.

***

At 7:45 am sharp, a crisp knock set Susan’s heart racing. Her sleep-addled brain took a full minute to process the knock coming from her front door and that she should walk across the kitchen and answer it. It took thirty more seconds and a second forceful knock for her to remember it was likely Andy and convince her feet to move.

Andy was like a cyclone, spinning his way into her apartment, the scent of spring petals and warm breezes encircling him. He paused momentarily, hand on her shoulder, to kiss both of her cheeks in one of his more European greetings. He pulled the chairs out of her kitchen table, deftly guiding her pajama-clad body into a seat. In seconds, he’d placed coffee and a blueberry muffin before her. He sat across from her, a dark chocolate muffin raining crumbs onto her pristine table.

“I got you a present.” His eyes were lit with mischief, and an uncharacteristic crimson heat built in his cheeks. He set a small package before her, still wrapped in its Amazon outer packaging. “Go ahead, open it.” She thought she heard a tinge of nervousness behind his typical confident tone.

Taking a last bite of her muffin, she tore the package open. She wasn't sure at first what it was. It was pink. It was encased in the kind of hard plastic you’d have to cut a doll or a screw driver out of. It kind of looked like a brush with its ergonomic fuschia handle, but it didn’t have any bristles. Instead it had a smooth, rounded head where the bristles should have been. Then the words at the top of the package registered in her slowly awakening brain.

Personal Massager.

“Uh. Uh?” She had no words. Yes, she was the shy one, but words had never been a problem. He’d bought her a massager? She was pretty sure what it was, despite the ubiquitous phrase personal massager on the packaging. She failed to tell herself it was probably a bad foreign translation of some hair care product she didn't recognize. Great, she thought resigned, first I need special shampoo and now my vagina apparently needs its own salon treatment too.

“Oh girl. It’s a toy. You turn it on and holy mother of God—vibration!” He motioned to his groin and then must have realized how ridiculous he looked pantomiming a hand job, which she reasoned was probably nothing like vibrating your insides. But her thoughts were beginning to tumble through her mind frantically. He’d bought her a sex toy. Wait, did he expect her to use it in the shower?

“I don't know what to say.”

Susan stared at the package in her hands, her mind racing. This wasn't just about hair anymore—it had never been. The hair book, the movie, Andy's persistent attention to her appearance... it was about breaking free. Her tightly bound hair was just the most obvious symbol of how she'd contained every part of herself.

***

What the fuck is happening, she thought as she turned on the shower. Andy had brought a chair into the bathroom and set it next to the sink. He was going to watch her. No. He was going to participate he’d said. And somehow it had seemed like a good idea to her at the time. Maybe it was the years of pent up frustration. Maybe it was that no one ever took a second look at her. Maybe it was fear that she’d die alone. Plus, he was gay, what trouble could they get into? Of all the hair care demonstrations she'd imagined, this definitely wasn't in the manual for nine-year-olds.

She looked back at him, shyness coursing through her as she tested the water’s temperature for the fourth time. He smiled at her encouragingly, holding up the app he’d installed on his phone. Not only had he bought her a sex toy, and intended to watch her use it, he had downloaded the accompanying app and planned to control the vibrations. The corners of his mouth lifted and she suddenly understood the meaning of “wicked grin.”

“What do you get out of this anyway? Aren't you gay?”

“Oh, honey.” The pout stole across his lips, a twinkle settling into his eyes. “I’m only mostly gay. I hate labels. I am going to enjoy this so much. And sometime next week, I'm going to fuck you. That is, if you're still up for this little experiment?”

She dropped her robe, standing nude in front of him as the steam began to swirl around the room on the wayward eddies of warm air.

His voice husky, he reached out and tugged one of her curls, twirling it around his finger. “You just need a little attention. It’s going to be fun bringing out your inner Anne Hathaway.”

As she stepped into the shower, he licked his lips. Wetness spread between her legs as she anticipated all of the steps he’d instruct her on as he taught her to properly care for her hair and then everything else she’d had bound too tightly for far too long.