The Fragile Snap of My Internal Law

You understand the necessity of stopping a disaster before it happens don’t you? I decided to start my day overthinking. I would wash my hair. I would multiply my lucre. Instead I had to endure a capricious flow that arrived unannounced; I had to witness the stain of a fresh liner; I had to listen to the fragile snap of my glasses colliding with the shower floor.

Nothing could go wrong if I remained productive; that was my internal law. By placing my glasses where I never usually would, I played it blind. It all happened because my mother told me that she was broke; every time I tried to meet with her to fix that, the days would get pushed back. I was left with the pervasive thought that my sister would grow up without security.

So I shaved my arms, my legs and exfoliated my body. I separated my locs into four parts; a ritual I do to conserve shampoo. Then the soap breached my defenses, stinging my eyes, while the water crept beneath the frames perched on the exfoliating scrub. Gravity finally settled this precarious arrangement. I heard two clunks: one light like an earring, and one heavy, the sound of resin meeting the shower floor. I got out of the shower with my hair still parted into four, with the shampoo still in my hair, taking the glasses with me to put it somewhere safe, while my roommates were still sleeping and the afternoon sun had gone from my window. I found the pink square casing of the hinge lying solitary next to the drain, and inside the drain, I found its twin. I knew I was screwed, but I didn’t say I was screwed; I just said ‘shit’, which is the same thing.

Just like a blind pirate without two good eyes, I brought the specimen near; It was close enough to blur, but the sight was still pathetic: two of the legs from that pink square casing that were missing, they were still buried deep inside the resin handle. I could not exhale fast enough to match my frustration. I can’t use my eyelash glue. I couldn’t use the cheapskate shoe glue. I certainly couldn’t use any glue at all. The damage was irreparable. A piece of white yarn that doesn’t match my frames would have to do.

Unlike Steve Urkle, I have hair over my eyebrows. When I brought my glasses up to my eyes to snip that extra piece of yarn, I closed one of my eyes to make sure I didn’t cut my hair. I did everything right; yet, when I looked into the mirror, from afar it looked like yarn flowers cured behind sparkled resin. That’s it; I just need to wear my hair down all the time. It’s fine. A couple of years ago, I was bald.

I thought I was having a mid-life crisis at twenty-four, when I was bald. I didn’t know the use of it until now: hair, that is. Now it’s like the love is so thoroughly drawn and nothing can go wrong until the wind blows.

Maybe being productive wasn’t such a great idea; the smart thing would’ve been to sit still and overthink about a string. But when I got up to get myself a five-course meal of Soreen malt lunchloaf and a thin slice of salted butter, trying to cut it with a knife despite its gelatinous resistance, I set it on a plate too small for a boulder but too big for my kid lunch, and then there was a knock on the door. The thing I was overthinking about three years ago came in the form of a letter: a jury summons.