Gripped

A redhead girl with hair as wild as her heart, a black eyed black haired boy folds his arms around her. Their faces are smooth, post adolescent, they laugh, they kiss. He grips her ruby heart and places it in a jar and promises to love and care for it forever. The red head looks at the heart and fear fills her eyes but she nods. She will be tamed. Time passes. The jar is is dusty, the heart is colourless, the youngsters have grown.

Ten weeks into lockdown and the world is smaller. In contrast hair is longer, alcohol consumption has risen and frustration is creeping in. I’m late up and my head is banging. Too much stuffy flat, too little outside i decide. Washed and dressed. I turn to my hair.

Reader, do you know what my favourite thing in the world right now is? What I love most?

You guessed it, hair clips.

You know, the ones, they have teeth and look like the jaws of a shark.

I have 22 minis and one mega. Some are butterflies, their gemmed wings are the clasps, that flutter in my hair. They sparkle and glitter and reflect the light. Others are copper and look like roses drawn with wire. i have black and gold, 20s style clips, smooth and sleek and one larger clasp with a silk, deep purple iris that covers it’s base.

Apologies, my head is banging. And I’m struggling not to barf.

Paracetamol, water, water, more water.

I lock the bathroom door. I can’t face him first thing in the morning. He is whistling, and i imagine him bustling around the kitchen. The smell of frying eggs makes me wretch.

Where was I?

Oh yes, hair clips.

Did I say i love them?

Of course there are other things I love,

Scaffolding is right up there, particularly the Asian bamboo structures,

I love cranes too, the ones that tower over the city, waiting to make.

Pylons.

Windmills.

I love rusty old cars,

And trucks with fat wheels.

And chairs in strange places, in a desert, in a field, at the top of a barren mountain.

I love the Middle Eastern spaghetti wires that strangle the electricity posts.

I love food, hot, spicy, sweet, sour,

i love an ice cold gin and tonic.

I love the sea.

But most of all and today, I love my hair grips.

My hair is difficult to control at the best of times. It is russet-red and as my grandmother describes it, “frizzy like the coloureds.” For all I know there maybe black genes in my family. We Johnson’s have always gone against the norm. We are contrary. If we are told to do something, you can bet your bottom dollar we will do precisely the opposite. It’s not a malicious thing, we just like to see what would happen if we didn’t do what everyone else did. So having black ancestry is perfectly possible and frankly, more interesting. I have wiry red hair which is is extremely curly and right now feral. I normally keep it in a short bob with no fringe and a side parting. But it has grown so much that my head is a like dandelion clock except the hair that won’t blow away.

So I have my clips.

Did I say I love my clips.?

They help me dominate that which is otherwise impossible to control.

The past.

I take a handful of hair at the roots and twist it and the claws bite down and grip the hair, tight, tight to the skin, away from my eyes and nose and mouth, away from all my senses. They are my rescuers.

Their jaws close over my memories, and their pain and redirects them. The grip, slams the door, sucks out the life. Pain versus pain.

Another clip another handful.

A meadow with a brook, once sunny and romantic, lush and flowered. The bank, is now overgrown, trees block the light and weeds strangle the picnic spot next to the water, the stream has been dammed and the mud is putrid and emits a smell that makes you gag.

Another handful. Tight, contained.

Deep apathy draws paths then routes are carved. Steps trod and retrod cover issues that have emerged and resurfaced for 35 years. Routes so deep, nothing can regrow, or be diverted

A 20s clip, snaps my hair, closed. Tidy.

A hospital room, white, and light.

The bed is empty, the sheets are ruffled. The occupant gone.

Two silhouettes stand at the window.One tall, one small.They do not speak. They cannot look at the bed. They won’t look at one another.

Decisions made, (now on hold,) hang in long sad silences, and over polite conversations,

The sun shines and the gems reflect the colours on to the wall behind me. The mirror reflects the London skyline from the window and I can just make out the yellow cranes at rest, over the Embankment. There are a smattering of people on the street and I relish the alien aspect of silent roads and bird song. I realise that I often look out the window using a mirror. Somehow watching the reverse is more straight forward than the direct view.

Another handful another twist. Shut it tight. Clenched.

A giant spider, her abdomen, burgundy, spins a web. The threads expand across deserts and forests and pulls them together together like a parachute that spans the world. She weaves and works and works and weaves. She’ll builds a home that is strong and safe. A strut snags, but she will fix it. The male is black as black as the night. He watches her for a long time, then straddles her back and remains there. He doesn’t like this web. It’s not what his mother would have made and tells her to change it, and they fight and the web tears and the she spider is broken..

The bruise below my right eye is yellowing to soft honey. It will be easier to hide today, just a little extra base. Honestly, It’s my fault. I see the signs but I always do the opposite of what I’m meant to. I never seem to learn either. I’m a rusty, old old car, and despite being knackered, in my head, I’m still a Ferrari, hot off the factory floor.

The whistling stops.

He calls out his goodbyes, but I remain quiet. Its better that he thinks that I’m asleep.

Another morsel of hair clamped, another closed book.

Two little birds have made a nest. they are an unlikely pair, she a robin, he a wag tail. The nest is of mud and twigs and glittery paper and flowers. The nest has three eggs. White with red and black speckles. They take turns to sit. To turn the eggs, to eat. All hatch. The chicks are black with red chests and they cry for food, cry to fly, cry and cry and cry. The wag tail, wags his tail and fetches food. He delivers it to the robin who mushes it and feeds it to the babes. But the chicks cry and food becomes scarce and he must go further and further to find what they demand. Each time a little further, each time he wanders whether he will come home. He is tired. Then one day he returns and one chick has fallen from the nest. He sees the red on the ground before he knows what it is. Robin says that that her chick had to leave.

I hear the latch and know that he is gone. Instinctively I breath a sigh of relief. I wait to be sure, then unlock the bedroom door. He’’s left the window open and a nice through breeze fills the flat. I have at least 9 hours before he is here again and I wont waste it any longer.

Hair first.

A wire rose. A black gem in the centre. Hair parcel sealed.

A red ant sits alone. It has lost its colony and is deep underground searching. The colony is large. And the city they have built, The ant carries her ladder on her back. It is long and strong and will help her go up to the sky or down to the centre of the earth. Her antennae are broken but she hopes that her way is clear. She is searching for what is missing.

I put the kettle on, for coffee, for rice. The meal will be a peace offering.

Another clasp, a butterfly with sapphire wings closes over the next bunch of hair.

A honey bee buzzes angrily. a magical force field prevents her escape. She sees the primroses, the lavender, the buddleja, the hive, but she is prevented from reaching freedom. The boy with the upturned glass peers at his prize, until bored, he finds another creature to bait. The bee remains for eternity searching a way out.

Another butterfly a ruby, clamped.

Two rubber ducks in an ocean of bubbles. The ducks bob, their smiles fixed. They do their best to ride the waves and never meet. A small child, fat and giggly gets in his bath. He grabs the ducks and plunges them into the water, deep, deep to the very bottom. He releases them and they rocket to the surface and beyond. The ducks smile, their fixed smiles and prepare for the next onslaught. He repeats the action again and again. The two ducks smile. The child charges the ducks in head on collision, one chubby fist meeting the other at break neck speed. The ducks smile their watery smiles. There is more to come.

I find the recipe book I need and consider the ingredients. I open the fridge and seeing the wine, a wave of longing comes over me. And I touch my face. I empty the wine,

8 bottles, down the sink.

The drinks cabinet, the bathroom cabinet,

and the vodka hidden under the bed.

To build a strong house, you need solid foundations.

To repair a damaged house you need scaffolding. sometimes you need a crane.

A rose clip, with diamanté centre. I harness the last clump and twist and clamp.

Two snakes, one as red as rubies, one as inky as onyx. Their cobbled skins shimmer in the sun. They are entwined in an eternal helix, red and black, black and red. Each tightens their grip on the other, restrict the others chance to escape, tighter tighter, until there is nothing to differentiate one from another. Two snakes constrict and become one, greater for their adaption.

By the time he is home, the sun is falling and the sky is as fiery as my hair.

The table is dressed, wafts of garlicky fish stew escape the kitchen and i have bathed.

I hear the key in the lock. My heart is beating. Will he speak to me? Will he forgive me?

In that instant I make a decision. The one that I have avoided all day. I race to the bathroom and I tear out my hair clips. Alongside the butterflies, roses and iris come handfuls of tangled red hair which sticks to my fingers. i don’t notice the the unbidden tears and the torn bloody scalp.

No more closed doors.

We meet in the kitchen.

He has hung up his coat and is bare footed. His black eyes find mine.

He surveys me for what seems like eternity. Then a look of surprise.

I follow his eyes to the drink I’ve placed in his hand.

“I thought we’d try a mock-tail for a change.” I say.

He smiles and then,

“I like your hair,”

“Yes,” l say, “ I think I’ll leave it down from now on.”

A redheaded woman with hair as wild as her heart, a black eyed, black haired man folds his arms around her. Their faces are hopeful, they laugh, they kiss. He cradles her colourless heart which he kept in a jar and places it alongside his own. He promises to love it again and care for it. To restore it. To mend that which is broken. Time will pass. We shall see.