Friday, June 04, 2004
Frankenstein Gets Her Hair Done
[the first person to point out that Frankenstein was the name of the doctor and not the monster will be banned from our comments forever]
Bolts were the only things missing. Lurching six-foot-seven, with graying skin and a peculiarly block shaped head, and hair that sat there like the thin glaze atop a pan of grease left out on the stove, Maria could have been Boris Karloff in drag, were she to ever wear anything other than jeans and a t-shirt. Her shoulders always tilted back just barely, as if she were slowly falling backwards as she walked. Her face, craggy and lipless, had the warmth of a rock. Unsmiling, with no emotion, she’d say hello and call me sweetie as we passed each other in the hallway, the stomping of her feet drowning out my timid greeting. She was an old thing, and frequently brought in her infant granddaughter. This kid, a fat little lump with skin the complexion of lard, would gargle and wail as Maria’s co-workers told her how precious she was. Even then, Maria’s face looked like a clenched fist. Over time, as the days and months cycled through my date-stamp, I grew accustomed to Maria’s appearance, and stopped thinking about the monster she resembled. Maria became just another person I tried to ignore as fully as possible.
This morning I arrived at work a bit early. I headed straight for the break room, and sat my lunch bag in the refrigerator. I was buying myself a Diet Coke when Maria walked in, her normally flat, shapeless hair twisted up into a corona of short, brown curls. The other Maria, eating breakfast at one of the tables, inhaled excitedly, and croaked, in her thick Cuban accent, “You got your hair done?” Maria had gotten her hair done, and now, instead of looking like Frankenstein, she looked like Frankenstein with a perm.
[the first person to point out that Frankenstein was the name of the doctor and not the monster will be banned from our comments forever]
Bolts were the only things missing. Lurching six-foot-seven, with graying skin and a peculiarly block shaped head, and hair that sat there like the thin glaze atop a pan of grease left out on the stove, Maria could have been Boris Karloff in drag, were she to ever wear anything other than jeans and a t-shirt. Her shoulders always tilted back just barely, as if she were slowly falling backwards as she walked. Her face, craggy and lipless, had the warmth of a rock. Unsmiling, with no emotion, she’d say hello and call me sweetie as we passed each other in the hallway, the stomping of her feet drowning out my timid greeting. She was an old thing, and frequently brought in her infant granddaughter. This kid, a fat little lump with skin the complexion of lard, would gargle and wail as Maria’s co-workers told her how precious she was. Even then, Maria’s face looked like a clenched fist. Over time, as the days and months cycled through my date-stamp, I grew accustomed to Maria’s appearance, and stopped thinking about the monster she resembled. Maria became just another person I tried to ignore as fully as possible.
This morning I arrived at work a bit early. I headed straight for the break room, and sat my lunch bag in the refrigerator. I was buying myself a Diet Coke when Maria walked in, her normally flat, shapeless hair twisted up into a corona of short, brown curls. The other Maria, eating breakfast at one of the tables, inhaled excitedly, and croaked, in her thick Cuban accent, “You got your hair done?” Maria had gotten her hair done, and now, instead of looking like Frankenstein, she looked like Frankenstein with a perm.
