Something Wiki (6 page)

Maturity
(psychological)

From
Wikipedia
, the free encyclopedia

Maturity is a psychological term used to indicate how a person responds to the circumstances or environment in an appropriate manner,
like dealing with the issues of people twice my age and trying to stay sane — which is harder than it looks!
This response is generally learned rather than instinctive, and is not determined by one's age,
like how Chloe acts like she's so sophisticated, but then throws a tantrum like a kindergartner when I break one little glass
. Maturity also encompasses being aware of the correct time and place to behave and knowing when to act appropriately, according to the situation and the culture of the society one lives in
which no one I know ever is
.

A
t
school the next day — Friday, thankfully — Chloe was acting super weird. She kept pulling Stacey aside to talk to her privately and was kind of ignoring Trisha and me. I asked if her mom had been upset about the glass I broke and she gave me a one-word answer: obviously.

I wanted to tell her that my mom and I were going to buy a replacement, but I thought maybe she needed the weekend to calm down. Like, maybe I could surprise her with a new glass on Monday and we could just go back to normal.

The two of them, Chloe and Stacey, went for a walk together at lunch and were gone for almost the whole hour. They were dressed almost exactly the same, too, which is pretty unusual. They were both wearing pink Hollister hoodies and skinny, light-blue jeans. It was a surprisingly warm day for February and neither of them wore a coat. From across the field, if you squinted, they looked like twins. I looked down at what I was wearing, black jeans and a baggy sweater and my giant winter coat, unzipped. I knew I didn't look anything like the two of them.

So while they were off walking, Trisha and I sat on the rusted-out jungle gym, knocking our salt-stained boots against each other and making up fake names for the band we decided we're going to start.

“How about Slush Puppies?” I said, eyeing the greyish puddle that had collected in the corner of the playground.

“That's terrible,” she said.

So I hopped off and started kicking the pile of slush that had inspired me up at her. It splashed everywhere and got the legs of her cords wet.

“Ugh, see if I ever start a band with you now,” Trisha said.

Then she jumped down and splashed me back until we were both soaked and giggling.

When we got back inside, our teacher, Ms. Vilaney, looked super annoyed at us for bringing all the icy sogginess inside. She sent us both to the washroom to clean ourselves up.

I heard Chloe whisper something to Stacey as we walked past them.

“Babies.”

“Did you hear that?” I asked Trisha as I nudged the bathroom door open with my hip.

“Hear what?” she said.

“Never mind.” I didn't want to snitch. Didn't want to spoil any chance I had of making up with Chloe by blabbing what I thought I'd heard to Trisha.

But the rest of the day was the same:

Me and Trisha.

And Stacey and Chloe.

Hairdresser

From
Wikipedia
, the free encyclopedia

Hairdresser is a term referring to anyone whose occupation is to cut or style hair in order to change or maintain a person's image. This is achieved using a combination of hair colouring, haircutting, and hair-texturing techniques. Most hairdressers are professionally licensed as either a barber or a cosmetologist
or else humiliation machines from planet Mega-Hunk
.

H
ow
do I even begin?

How can I possibly explain exactly how wrong today went?

Okay, well, for starters, Mom and I went to the mall.

We went to the mall to buy a nice glass and to get my hair cut at that new salon she told me had just opened.

Only we weren't going to the real mall, the Eaton Centre, the giant one downtown.

Oh, no, we were going to Cloverfield.

Z used to make fun of Cloverfield all the time when he still lived at home. It's way out in the suburbs, where we live, and it doesn't have any brand-name stuff or even any cool alternative stores, just places trying to knock off what's popular. Z used to call it Cloven Feel, but I'm not sure why. I guess he thought it was funny.

The ride to the mall was actually pretty fun. Mom turned on the radio and sang along to some old songs she loved and I joined in when I knew the words. We're both terrible singers, but the sun had actually come out for once and I was feeling pretty good. I was going to take charge — of myself, if nothing else — and make the earth stop trying to spin ever so slightly out of orbit in a way that I knew was to blame for how things were starting to go wrong. Okay, so maybe my astronomy was a bit hazy, but we'd find the perfect glass, and I'd get a cool new haircut that — along with some killer combat boots — would show Stacey and Chloe how non-babyish I really was.

For starters, we checked out the discount housewares store. There were giant bins of discounted Christmas decorations and creepy garden gnomes, and I got the definite feeling that we wouldn't be able to find a worthy replacement for Chloe's twenty-dollar glass.

“Mom,” I said, pulling her away from the display of decorative throw pillows that had caught her attention, “we're not going to find anything here. This stuff is way too cheap.”

“This store has some really cute stuff,” she said, grabbing one of the pillows shaped like a pair of big, cartoon lips. “Wouldn't this be fun for your room?”

“Mom, focus,” I said, putting the hideous pillow back with its own kind. “We just need one glass, but it has to be good. Can't we go somewhere nicer?”

Mom stopped fiddling with another equally cheesy pillow shaped like a giant heart and looked at me seriously. “Sweets, with this baby on the way. We're — well, your dad and I are going to be helping Zim and Jen a lot, financially, while they're living with us. Zim's job just doesn't pay enough, and Jen's going to have to leave the bookstore once she has the baby. So we have to be a bit more careful with money.”

I suddenly felt embarrassed for asking, but it's not like it was my fault we didn't have enough money to go around.

“Then why am I getting a fancy haircut?” I asked.

“Because you deserve one.” She squeezed my shoulder.

I thought about snapping at her and saying something about how she was only taking me to get a haircut because she felt guilty about keeping me in the dark for so long about Z and J, but I swallowed the impulse. I was going to be a better person. Starting today.

“Anyway,” Mom said, walking towards the aisle full of containers, glasses and bowls, “I'm sure we can find something nice here.”

I followed her and we prowled the aisle together. Mom kept picking up one glass after another that was totally wrong.

“What about this one?” she said, pointing to a thin, blue-speckled glass.

“No, it was just plain glass. But with a ring of silver around the bottom.”

“Like this?” she held up another one.

“No, that one's too tall. It was short.”

“Like this?” Again, it was completely wrong.

“No, Mom,” I said, starting to lose my zen-like patience, “that one has the silver on the top.”

“Hmm, this is tough.” Mom scanned up and down the shelf. “Do any of them look right, Jo?”

I shook my head.

When we'd gone up and down the aisle three times, I had to admit that none of the glasses was an exact match, or even close.

“I think it's the gesture that's important, sweetie.” Mom held up the glass with the silver at the top for emphasis. “I'm sure Chloe's family will appreciate whatever we get.”

I wasn't sure of that at all, but I figured a non-matching peace offering was better than nothing, so in the end we picked a set of two glasses that were the same basic shape as the one I dropped and took it over to the cash register.

The salon was right between the luggage store and the gourmet popcorn shop, where the off-brand sports jersey store used to be. This hip new Cloven Feel salon was called Dye, Dye, My Darling. Its sign was made to look like it'd been carved into granite that hung above the doors and a giant pair of scissors stood ready to take out any unsuspecting victims.

It was cool.

I was floored.

They were playing really loud music, I guess it was metal, but it mostly just sounded like we were walking through a wall of distortion and feedback as we entered, and I could see from my mom's face that it was already starting to give her a headache.

Correction: it was giving her one of her world-famous migraines that has to be treated immediately with tomato juice.

She handed me off to the woman at the front desk (who looked dangerously cool with bleach-blond hair, rings in both sides of her nose, and shaved-off eyebrows) and told me she had to go find some of her miracle drink, but that she'd be back soon to see how I was doing.

The browless woman looked me over. “So,” she said, totally deadpan, “what do you want?”

“You know …” I started to speak, but her gaze was way too intense, so I stared down at my sneakers instead: Converse high-tops, black with mega-scuffed toes. “Shorter. Like —”

“It's fine,” she interrupted. “We'll do something fun.” The way she said
fun
was like a bullet flying straight out of her mouth. Direct and probably lethal.

“Oh, great,” I croaked.

“Sure.” She blinked a few times. I realized that when I'd lifted my eyes from the floor, I'd let them rest on the pale blank space above her eyes. I was totally staring.

“Take a seat,” she said. “Marco will be with you in a minute. He's good.”

I said okay, even though I'd never had a man cut my hair before. It made me even more nervous than I already was.

Chloe says that all men who cut hair are gay, it's one of her dozens of totally unproven theories. I don't think that's true, though. Or maybe it is, I don't know. Chloe thinks she knows everything about being gay because one of her cousins came out last year. Then again, she probably knows more than I do.

Anyway, ten minutes later, Mom still hadn't come back and a guy walked up to me where I was sitting and stuck out his hand to say hello.

Okay, he wasn't just
a
guy.

He was a completely gorgeous man.

He was this manly, amazing-smelling person, with perfectly ripped jeans and a plain white V-neck shirt with a little button stuck on the left side of his chest and a thick brown leather cuff around his right wrist. He was tall too, so much taller than me. He must have been over six feet, and he was perfectly skinny. A total rock star–looking guy, in the flesh.

“Hello,” he said, as he reached out his hand, “I'm Marco.”

And in that moment I was pretty sure I had died, I just couldn't figure out if I'd gone to heaven or hell. Sure, Marco was the most heavenly beautiful human man I had ever seen up close; that was undeniable. But seeing him standing there, smiling, with his hand stuck out and a pair of silver scissors barely peeking out of his pocket, I felt like the ugliest girl who'd ever crawled the earth. I could practically feel my pimples vibrating all over my face, underneath my hideous, greasy bangs. Even my zits were embarrassed to be seen next to this flawless specimen of a dude. I was red all over.

We shook hands (mine was completely clammy, ugh) and then he put his left hand on my shoulder, leading me over to his station. I was floating. Seriously. I couldn't feel my sneakers touching the linoleum floor. I'm pretty sure my shoulder had gone completely numb, too.

“Okay,” he said as he sat me down in the big salon chair and checked out my hair. “So, what's the plan?”

“I don't know.” I said. I squeaked, really.

“You want it short?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Sure” I said, “whatever. Just make me look … ummm …”

“Cool?” He smiled and showed off a line of glistening teeth that would make a dentist weak in the knees.

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Um, I think so.”

“Trust me, that won't be a problem.”

I just nodded; I'd completely run out of words.

Marco brought me over to the sinks lined up against the back of the salon.

“Just relax,” he said, pushing my shoulders down from where they'd migrated: just below my ears.

Oh sure, just relax while this male model runs his fingers through my nasty oily hair. No problem.

Marco wrapped a towel around my neck and turned on the faucet. He tested the temperature carefully, and when he was sure it wasn't too hot or too cold, he guided my head back into the sink and gingerly took off my glasses and set them aside. I sat there trying hard not to squirm as he pumped some shampoo from a big bottle on the counter into his hand and started massaging my scalp.

My legs — thighs — started tingling. I was terrified, trying so hard just to stay still.

“How does that feel?” he asked. His voice was rich and warm. It was chocolate, it was velvet.

“Fine,” I peeped.

“All right,” he cooed, “just let me know if it gets too hot.”

“Sure.” I couldn't manage to make a sound louder than a whisper.

When we were finished with the wash, he wrapped the towel around my hair and gave it a quick tousle.

“You're going to look great,” he said. “Trust me.”

Then we went back to his station and he went to work. He held his scissors like a jousting knight with a lance (or something equally manly and tough, I don't know, my brain was pretty shaken up at this point — it still kind of is).

I really hope that Chloe was wrong about men who cut hair. I just kept staring at myself in the mirror to try to stay calm — and to try to avoid staring at Marco. I breathed slowly and counted the pimples on my face while he worked.

When Marco had done most of the cut — it was so short I felt like I was practically bald, but I was too embarrassed to ask him to stop — he pulled out his electric razor from the drawer at his station.

“Okay if I buzz the back?” he sang, holding the razor like a microphone. “It'll look cool.”

“Uh-huh.” We'd already gone this far. I really was going to be walking out of the salon bald. How could I have let this happen?

“So,” he said, as the razor nipped the back of my neck and I tried earnestly to blink myself invisible, “that's a great shirt you've got on.”

I tried to remember what I'd picked out of the laundry hamper this morning. I was wearing a giant hairdressing bib over my clothes and I was surprised Marco had even noticed what I was wearing.

“Didn't I see a Nirvana shirt under that smock?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Yeah. It was my brother's. They were his favourite band in high school.”

“You like them?”

“Sure, they're okay.”

“Yeah, what's your favourite album?”

Oh no. Oh no no no. Why did beautiful Marco have to ask me a skill-testing question about my T-shirt? As much as I love wearing Z's old shirts, I don't actually know a lot of the bands all that well. I mean, the Ramones, sure. “I Wanna Be Sedated” and all that, and Taking Back Sunday are great. But Dead Kennedys? The Cramps? To be totally and completely honest, I kind of just thought the shirts looked cool.

Does that make some kind of wannabe rocker loser?

Nirvana, I remembered, had a singer who killed himself, and they had a song called “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” But an album? I had a couple of their songs on my iPod, but that was it, I had no idea what albums they were from.

“Don't really have one,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Marco, “I like 'em all, too. You a Foo Fighters fan?”

“Uh-huh, yeah.” The back of my neck was impossibly itchy, but I couldn't scratch it with my hands under the bib. “They're good.”

“Yeah, I love Dave Grohl,” Marco said, nodding. “That guy rocks.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Dave Grohl?” He stopped buzzing. “Come on, you know Dave Grohl.”

“Oh yeah, right.” I coughed. “Dave Grohl. I think so.”

“What,” he said, “don't tell me you're a poser. You listen to the radio? You like 4EVR?” He said, naming a one-hit-wonder, C-list boy band that pretty well only kindergartners listen to.

He was joking. He was kidding around, I'm sure. But I sat there frozen, totally defenceless, just praying he would finish with my neck and I could get out of his chair.

“Come on,” he said, “sing with me!” And he sang their only single to himself, perfectly off-key, “Baby, baby, baby, come to me, me, me. You're all I see, see, see, just you and me, me, me.”

Turning to one of his fellow hairdressers, a girl with a bleach-blond pixie cut, Marco said, “This girl loves 4EVR! Why won't she danc
e with me?”