Bad Girl House 17

My strong feelings about my hair come from many years of having very little control over my own hairstyle. As a child my grandma was the one who cut my hair. She really didn’t know what she was doing, which didn’t seem to matter to her or to my mother. My hair was hers to experiment on each time she found a cute picture in a magazine. I was often left with bangs whose length was determined at the point that they were finally perfectly straight. Throughout middle school my grandma gave me permanents that would have never been in style at any point in history. Most of my friends came to school with the big 80’s hair. They had the high bangs, the crimped waves, and always smelled of hairspray. A self proclaimed tom boy, during seventh grade I had the short hair to match. I was relentlessly teased, ironically by a girl with a very similar haircut. In high school I didn’t have a close group of friends that I hung out with to help me with things like hair and make up, so I did what I thought looked good at the time. Thankfully the evidence can now only be seen in pictures. In college I was finally just let my hair grow out and started leaving it alone instead of trying to overly style it. When I met John, he immediately told me that I allowed my hair to fall over my face because was using it as something to hide behind. From the very beginning he made me question my self confidence. Before Jess and Josh were born, he convinced me to cut my long hair off because a shorter hair style would be easier to take care of. It took more time to maintain, and I hated the way I looked. He knew that I treasured my long hair, but both times I gave in, instantly wishing that I hadn’t. It is very likely that John wanted to add to my already fragile self esteem, even though he insisted that he made the suggestions for my benefit. I began to feel much better as may hair gradually grew out again. I didn’t cut my hair before Nick was born, but about a year later, John told me that I deserved to make an appointment to have it permed. I hesitantly agreed, and the appointment was made. I had been going to the same hairdresser for some time, so it was good to see her again. She had given me that infamous hair cut some 15 years earlier, as well as the last two before having Jessica and Josh. The salon was very close to my grandparents’ house, so John was going to wait there with all three kids. My mom normally visited on Saturdays, so she would be there too. The plan was to go out to eat when I was finished.

I walked into the salon with a lot of long, thick, straight hair. I knew that it was going to take quite a bit of time, but I began to get nervous as the time really started to drag on. While rollers were still being put in my hair, John burst through the door. With his jaw clenched, he asked how much longer it was going to take. There wasn’t a definitive answer to give him.

“We are all very hungry and tired of waiting for you. Call me as soon as you are done.”

After John left, Renee could only apologize to me. She thought this was a day to pamper my self, so she had been taking her time. She would have worked faster if she would have known I was in a hurry. The other woman that worked there, well known for being outspoken, couldn’t believe that he came in acting like that. She said that she would give him a piece of her mind if he came back to check on me again. Both of them wanted to be sure that I was going to be alright when I left. I told them not to worry, but my eyes were welling up with tears. I kept looking down in an attempt to hide them. I tried to down play John’s behavior, even though I was growing more and more concerned. It wasn’t often that anyone witnessed his abusive behavior. It was one of the few times that I had to address it with someone else. I was becoming more aware that I needed to get away from him.

I still had to sit for at least an hour with permanent solution on my hair, and through having the rollers removed. This was no longer a day of relaxation, but of building stress and fear. I knew that Renee was now working as fast as she could, but my own anxiety was causing me to become impatient. There always seemed to be one more roller to be taken out. I called my grandparents house when I was finally done. I heard the gravel as John speed into the small parking lot and quickly stop in front of the door. He apparently wasn’t going to get out of the car, so I thanked Renee again and went outside.

I was later told by my mother that John wouldn’t let her or my grandmother give the kids any snacks to tide them over until we went to the restaurant. As soon as we got to the house, he rushed to get all three kids buckled in. John glared at me from across the table during the entire meal. It was a stare that sent a clear message. It was going to be a long, rough night. When we got home, John was still going on about how long my hair appointment had taken. I had waisted his entire Saturday. It was time that he couldn’t get back. Time that he could have been working on the house. While he continued complaining, unbuckled the kids and got them into the house. I walked down the hallway to our bedroom to change Nick’s diaper. John Nick from me and roughly put him in his crib. Everything I had worried about all afternoon was happening. He backed me into the wall right beside the crib. His hand was in my face as I stared at the floor. I was terrified to make eye contact with him. I pressed the palms of my hands against the wall, trying to keep myself steady. He suddenly grabbed both of my arms just below my shoulders, and lifted me a foot off of the ground. My back was slammed aggressively into the wall. All of the air left my body with a painful exhale. John didn’t place me back on the ground, he just let go. My feet found the floor and my body collapsed. I wrapped my arms around myself, hardly able to take air back in. The agonizing inhale was as loud as my last forced exhale. My eyes widened with panic. I must have broken ribs. John had walked away, while I gasped for breath on my hands and knees. Breathing quickly was only slightly less painful than trying to take a deep, full breath. When I was able to get to my feet, I saw the broken drywall. My ribs were never treated. For months afterwards, every deep breath, every quick movement made me double over in pain.