Bangs

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scalp and fingers screamed from the heat</p><p id="1307">Holding the curling iron handle tight in one hand I would hoist the half-gallon can of Aqua Net hairspray and shower my sizzling hair with sticky droplets smoke and steam billowing towards the ceiling</p><p id="1140">This act was furtive and quick because if Mother caught me mixing the flammable spray with the hot iron she would yell again</p><p id="2a51">But every curling iron owned by a girl in 1989 was textured with crusted sticky droplets of hair glue it was the only way to convince the loops to stay upward all day</p><p id="1191">With a brush I would rip the hardened strands back towards my head teasing out a voluminous poof that never quite satisfied me</p><p id="8a55">Shannon’s and Courtney’s were always bigger always taller their blonde hair loyally arching and cascading for them daily ensuring that the boys followed them instead of me</p><p id="5cf7">My braces having just been removed that year I hoped my spiral perm and painfully crafted bangs would launch me into that level of popularity guarded by the Shannons

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and Courtneys</p><p id="f74f">But my rounded cheeks missed beats and wide-eyed innocence revealed my rank, simply the awkward hair-sprayed child lingering at the far side of the cafeteria</p><p id="4a61"><i>Vixen Lea is a mother to two small children and a number of animals, but first and foremost she is a human struggling to hang on to joy and presence. Poetry helps her remember who she was before juice boxes and laundry and playdates. Her writing can be found on her blog <a href="http://wakinguprazzledazzle.com">wakinguprazzledazzle.com</a>.</i></p><p id="9b40">More poetry by Vixen Lea:</p><div id="a786" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/steady-8f4d359d002b"> <div> <div> <h2>Steady</h2> <div><h3>a poem</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*QgvJnSd23vtkXWrl)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

On being a teenage girl in 1989

When I was fourteen I begged my mom to let me cut layered bangs in a thick patch halfway across the top of my head

The goal was to curl, tease, spray, and shellac these bangs to a gravity-defying puffed-out masterpiece bearing striking similarities to a mouse nest atop my head

For 45 minutes each morning before school I would stake claim in front of the bathroom mirror armed with tools and chemicals twisting uncooperative strands around the hot metal pulling and pushing until my scalp and fingers screamed from the heat

Holding the curling iron handle tight in one hand I would hoist the half-gallon can of Aqua Net hairspray and shower my sizzling hair with sticky droplets smoke and steam billowing towards the ceiling

This act was furtive and quick because if Mother caught me mixing the flammable spray with the hot iron she would yell again

But every curling iron owned by a girl in 1989 was textured with crusted sticky droplets of hair glue it was the only way to convince the loops to stay upward all day

With a brush I would rip the hardened strands back towards my head teasing out a voluminous poof that never quite satisfied me

Shannon’s and Courtney’s were always bigger always taller their blonde hair loyally arching and cascading for them daily ensuring that the boys followed them instead of me

My braces having just been removed that year I hoped my spiral perm and painfully crafted bangs would launch me into that level of popularity guarded by the Shannons and Courtneys

But my rounded cheeks missed beats and wide-eyed innocence revealed my rank, simply the awkward hair-sprayed child lingering at the far side of the cafeteria

Vixen Lea is a mother to two small children and a number of animals, but first and foremost she is a human struggling to hang on to joy and presence. Poetry helps her remember who she was before juice boxes and laundry and playdates. Her writing can be found on her blog wakinguprazzledazzle.com.

More poetry by Vixen Lea: