variations on a domestic scene
“Moooooom! When’s hairtime? I haven’t had hairtime since this morning!” whined Belmyra, dragging her pink skull and crossbone Converse clad feet until she plopped on the floor. Her “what is fashion?” t-shirt and black skinny jeans were getting covered in dust.
“What’s that?” I responded, “I thought I heard someone say something, but it must not have been to me because I didn’t hear my name.”
“Ugh, whatever, Chelsea.”
“That’s more like it. Get off the floor, you’re going to ruin your favorite ironic t-shirt. ‘Mom’ is for people who rent movies from Blockbuster and drink Starbucks coffee.” “Gross!! Starbucks!!” giggled Kurtis, Belmyra’s little brother. He was only four but was already rocking some rad argyle fingerless gloves that he’d picked out himself, and because of his lazy eye, he got some kick-ass oversized plastic rimmed glasses. Transparent plastic, but with rhinestones on the corners. Between his eye for awesome styles, and his appreciation for obscure film (he just could not get enough of 8mm footage of Punch and Judy puppet shows), that boy was going to be a heart-breaker some day.
“Kurtis, go set up the parlor, and Belmyra you text Brandon and tell him hairtime in ten minutes.”
“No need, my cherry-flavored push-up pop! I’m already home. My hair is just NOT staying in my eyes today.” Brandon appeared from foyer.
“Woah, my Chello-jello, that unitard is hot and a half! You look like a sexy retro-future space-chick! Take me to your leader!”
“Gross!” screamed Belmyra, “Mom and Dad totally kissed!”
I went on making out with Brandon, his mustache hairs tickling my nose. Brandon was like a super skinny, pot-bellied Tom Selleck. No wonder he took home “Prom King” at last year’s annual Williamsburg Re-Claim High School Extravaganza. If Belmyra wanted us to stop she could call us by our real names.
“Stop it!” she shrieked.
We gathered in the parlor. Kurtis had forgotten to put out the Dapper Dan © wax, and plug in the straightener. I was exhausted so I let the kids do each others’ hair. It was good practice for them anyway, since they were going to have to learn to do it on their own eventually. Brandon held my waist as we watched them. Kissing my neck he told me about how once Nerd Reference released their next record, we were going to move into a place with at least two barber-shop basins, with massagers in the dip where you place your neck. One day we’d have a full time stylist, and all the PBRs, waffles and chicken we could stuff ourselves with while the stylists did their thing.
