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Sixteen Candles

by Kimberly N, San Jose, California, USA, Age 17


Her milky white ass and thighs were wrinkled.

Landon James Madonna Zeta Jones the 57th, Queen of Wales and heir to the British throne, examined her reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. Her pajamas and underwear were strewn across the countertop. She was sixteen. Her breasts were small, and her legs were short. She stripped a bloody pad from her dirty underwear and wrapped it in the yellow plastic packaging. Like compost, it smelled overwhelmingly rich with life and renewal. Tossing her underwear into a hamper, she threw the yellow wad away.

She stepped off a braided purple rug past the low flush toilet and slid open the shower door. Climbing into the shower, she closed the frosted glass door. The bathroom was blurry and nearly undistinguishable through the door. She stood on the edge of the shower tub and pried open the bathroom window. Her backyard was verdant with springtime exuberance through the screen. In the summer it would be nearly sylvan, and the trees would grow new wood and leaves with branches dropping with fruit.

She pushed the white shower knob to the right and pulled. The water spluttered, and she heard a rush through the pipes. Cold water surged through the shower head. She shivered and hopped in place. Her hair was wet and flat on her scalp. She ran her fingers through her hair, massaging her head. Stray hairs slid off to explore the world, and she watched as they ran down the drain.

She remembered pulling her hairs out. Years ago, in elementary school, with burgeoning breasts, she had met a girl with an older sister. The girl’s sister had been sixteen, with an eighteen year old boyfriend, perfect breasts, and perfect hair.

“Landon James Madonna Zeta Jones the 57th, Queen of Wales and heir to the British throne,” Stacey always liked to sing her name in one breath. “My sister is going to the prom tonight. She has the perfect makeup and the perfect dress and the perfect hair. She’s going to let me help and wear glitter and do my hair.”

“Wow,” Landon James Madonna Zeta Jones the 57th, Queen of Wales and heir to the British throne, was impressed.

“She’s been parting her hair and sweeping it up and pulling it out to make the part perfect and clean. She’s so beautiful!”

“She pulls her hairs out? Like, you mean she cuts it? Or does she really pull her hair out of her head?” Landon James Madonna Zeta Jones the 57th, Queen of Wales and heir to the British throne, did not understand.

“Obviously!” Stacey rolled her eyes like it was common practice and continued, gesturing and describing the dress at length, chewing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with her mouth open. They ate lunch in the school cafeteria with the fifth and sixth graders but sat apart from the older, infinitely more mature and nearly teenaged sixth graders. Landon James Madonna Zeta Jones the 57th, Queen of Wales and heir to the British throne, sat wide eyed, half eaten apple in hand, picturing a perfect white line down the middle of Claudia’s elegant head. In her mind, Claudia pulled hairs and the part grew wider, so wide that it began to engulf her head, until she was left with a ring of hair, like Homer Simpson. Claudia Simpson smiled in her princess prom dress, perfect breasts, perfect red lipstick, and perfect smile, her hair coming off in clumps like a deciduous tree.

In the shower, Landon James Madonna Zeta Jones the 57th, Queen of Wales and heir to the British throne, flipped open the top of her golden flora shampoo bottle. She poured a dollop into her hands and raked her fingers through her hair, lathering the shampoo into a thick white foam. More stray hairs came loose in her hands.

She came home that day and ran upstairs to her room. Closing the door, she carefully surveyed her reflection in the full length closet mirror. She pulled off her purple striped ponytail holder and shook out a long braid. Brushing and parting her hair with a blue wide-toothed comb, she ran the comb down the part, perfecting it until it was a single line. She pulled out one erroneous hair and examined it in her palm.

The root was a dark black bulb, smaller than the pin on a needle. She fingered it gingerly. Would it germinate in a glass of water and shampoo? She was Landon James Madonna Zeta Jones the 57th, world famous horticultural beautician. Instead, she pressed down on the root against the white plaster of a wall. The pigment in the root left behind a streak of black.

Blood splattered down her legs in the shower, leaving a red lichen-like pattern on the shower tub linoleum. She shifted and let the stream of water clean her legs.
She continued to pull out hairs over the course of a month, capriciously, though with a curious obsession. Eventually, a black heart <3 drawn with the pigments from her hair was pressed into the plaster next to her bedroom mirror.

She started her period soon after. Forgetting the heart, she mourned the loss of her perfect prepubescent body and dreamed of an arboreal life. She wanted to live in a tree house in the rainforest, protesting the destruction of the natural fauna habitats, wrapping bandages across her pelvis like the Amazon women. Throwing herself across her blue flower bedspread, she cried herself to sleep the first night of her period and many nights afterwards.

She shook a can of shaving cream and replaced the blade on her razor. She extended a leg and slathered herself with the green gel, pushing her wet hair behind her ears and carefully pressing the blade across her skin.

Years later, her friend’s cousin knew a girl who ripped hairs from her head, leaving bald spots like a dolly attacked with scissors, until her mother noticed and sent her to a doctor. The girl had slit her wrists after coming home from her final therapy session and died from the blood loss.

She rinsed her hair and legs, quickly running a loofah over her skin. She wrung the water from her hair out into the tub and stepped out of the shower, pulling a blue terry cloth towel from a bar on the wall. She wrapped the towel around her body and closed the toilet seat. She sat down and hugged her knees to her chest, her wet hair soaking through the towel. Her prom dress, a black sheath, sparkled in her bedroom.

THE END