A Strand of Blue Hair

As our school bus approaches the intersection of Euclid and Brookhurst, my friend Alex points out his window at the street corner,

               “Hey, Jon!” he screams. “Look, Blue Hair Lady is back!”

               “Is it still blue?” I ask.

               “Nope. Red today,” Alex answers.

               Surprised, I rise in my seat, trying to see through his window on the other side of the bus. Finally, I catch a glimpse of her, sitting on the bench at the bus stop.

              “Whoa. Red’s not bad.” I let out a low whistle.

              “Why don’t you tell her that?” Alex asks with a laugh.

               “I will. Open your window.”

               Alex manages to pry open his window after a few moments.  I yell out, “Hey! Your hair is awesome!”

               She glances up for a second and grins; the stoplight turns green as she gives us a thumbs-up.

               We have turned left from Euclid onto Brookhurst on our way to school every school day for almost two years. So, it was back on the first day of junior high when I first noticed one lady at the bus stop on the street corner there.  Often, she is not the only person sitting there, but easily stands out.  Usually the woman wears a long, black trench coat, probably to keep warm in the early morning. She isn’t very tall, but looks to be in her early twenties. She has fair complexions, and her pale skin contrasts greatly with her dark eyes. She has long, black hair, with the exception of a single, long strand of colored hair hanging down over her face. On the first day that we first saw her, that strand of hair was blue; Alex and I aptly named her “Blue Hair Lady”.

               We soon noticed that Blue Hair Lady was sitting at that exact same spot on every single weekday, at exactly 7:25 AM. We also observed that she apparently liked to change the color of her single, special strand of hair. Sometimes, she would change it two or three times in a single week, from blue to black, black to blonde, and back to blue. Alex and I made it a habit to watch for her every day, especially to see if she had altered her hair color once more. We never said anything to her, but we liked to predict what color she would have in her hair next.

                However, what stood out about her (to me, at least) was not her hair. I found her eyes to be much more intriguing. They were dark and deep, like a pool whose depths are unfathomable. There was something special about that sad, desperate, yet beautiful look in her eyes; I had seen it before, though I didn’t know where.  

               “Daddy… where’s Mommy?”

                The little girl climbs into her father’s arm as he sets down a large pile of papers. The man’s eyes are red and worn, and he looks as if he hasn’t slept for days.

                “What’s wrong?” the little girl continues. “I thought Mommy was gonna be home tonight.”

                “Lizzy, well…” he stops and sighs, looking into his daughter’s bright, curious eyes.

                “Mommy had a little trouble in her car on the way home tonight. She’s gone to the hospital just in case something might be wrong. The doctors are going make sure she’s alright, and then she’ll be back.”

                 The little girl suddenly feels a pang of worry in her heart.

                 “Will Mommy be back soon?” she asks anxiously.

Her father hugs her tightly. He does not want to cry, much less let his daughter see him cry.

                 “Yes, Lizzy, Mommy will be back soon.”

Usually, she doesn’t look too hurried. Sometimes, she is sitting there, listening to music while waiting for the bus. Maybe she likes heavy metal, or has a taste for punk rock, like me.  The way she dresses might make her seem ‘gothic’, but she doesn’t seem very grim or drab to me. She gazes off in the distance, and who knows what she is thinking?  She doesn’t look dirt-poor, but the fact that she has to take the bus every morning shows that she isn’t exactly brimming with cash either. She probably lives a very carefree lifestyle, working a simple part-time job in the daytime, making just enough money for a living. I wondered what sort of life she led, and what sort of experiences would give her such a mysterious look.

               The girl is a little taller now. She’s learned how to do her hair, and she likes having a ponytail. She has a few strands of hair covering her eyes, but that’s okay. She likes it that way. Sometimes, when she’s bored, she tries to blow her hair upwards as far as she can.  She stumbles through the hall with a notebook and pencil bag. She doesn’t want to be late again. She also has a book with her. It’s a book called Chasing Redbird, about another little girl who is trying to fit into the world. She likes the book a lot.

                Suddenly, she bumps into an older, taller boy in the hallway.

                “Hey, watch where you’re going, little midget!” He yells, shoving her back. She falls on the floor, dropping all of her stuff.

                “You should get rid of that stupid hair over your eyes,” he says with a laugh. “It makes you blind, plus it’s ugly as hell.”

                 The boy walks away as the little girl picks up her books, feeling hurt. The other kids haven’t been very nice to her, especially ever since her mom died two years ago. She doesn’t have very many friends, but she doesn’t understand why no one likes her. She gets up and hurries down the hall. She doesn’t want to be late again.

I saw all of this in those few seconds when she would glance up carefully at me on the school bus.  It was all in her eyes.  As I saw ‘Liz’ more and more with every passing day, I studied her more closely and carefully.  I began to think that she might be an amateur artist or writer of some sort. I don’t know what made me think that; it must have been her deep, insightful eyes or her creative antics with hair.  In her free time, she might tap into her creativity, making abstract drawings or writing short stories.

                 Liz is older now. She’s in college, with an evening job at the local drink shop. She doesn’t quite pay attention during the lectures; after all, she is making enough money to suffice. Instead, she likes to doodle and draw pictures while the boring professor drones on and on about the properties of physics. The girl sitting next to her looks over at her current drawing.

                “Feeling artistic today, Liz?” she asks.
Liz brushes aside a strand of blue hair from her face.

                “Yeah. Had a dream last night,” she replies.

                “Really? What was it?”

Liz glances down at her work: A rough sketch of a female angel with broken wings.

                “Nah. Nothing,” she murmurs quietly.

                “Are you sure? The drawing’s really interesting. The facial expression’s just incredible. The eyes are so… deep, y’know? Must’ve been a helluva dream.”

                “Yeah, it was,” says Liz, lost in her thoughts.


                Surely, she didn’t have the best of every world. But as she sat there, wearing her black trench coat and ripped jeans, she looked completely content and untroubled. More and more, and I admired this air of quiet confidence around her, the ability to be completely at ease at any time. Nothing about her betrayed any sense of remorse or conflict. Except for her eyes.

                I began to realize that her way of life (or, at least, the sort of life that I depicted her with) was appealing to me, and always had been. How incredible it would be, just to be able to lay back and enjoy things once in a while, the way she did! I also realized how rare it was that a child from a decently affluent family, such as mine, could throw aside the careers of a doctor or lawyer, and aspire instead to simply make the most of life.
             
           Liz sits in her room, late at night. It is past midnight, and she is finally laying on the finishing touches to a report about ecosystem destruction in central Brazil. She reflects upon the long path that has brought her here.

                It was years and years ago when her father asked her, like all small children are asked, what she wanted to be when she grows up. She didn’t know. A dentist? No. Dentists are scary. A businesswoman? No. Money and big business never appealed to her. So what did she want to be? Liz didn’t know. All she knew was that she liked to draw, and play with the strand of hair across her face.

                Liz continues to work on the report. It’s a big assignment, and she doesn’t want a bad mark. Besides, she’ll need to wake up early to catch the bus tomorrow, and she doesn’t want to be late.

               “Ever thought of what you’re gonna do after college, Jon?” my friend asked me. We were just weeks away from graduating junior high. Just a few more months, and then high school. Our lives would begin to change dramatically.

                “I’m not sure what kinda job I’m gonna get, if that’s what you mean,” I responded.

                “Well, not just your job or anythin’. I mean, how d’ya want your life to be when you’re grown up?” he clarified.

                “Umm… I guess I don’t want a whole ton of cash or fame, I think.”

                “Then, what do you want out of life?”

                I thought for a moment.

                “Just to be content. No worries about career, or cash, or anything. I wanna chill out,” I answered. “Have some fun, enjoy life while I’m at it, just get by. I don’t want mid-life crises or anything, y’know what I mean?”

                “No worries about cash, man?” he said with a whistle. “You’re rare, man, you’re rare. But I know what you mean.”

                 And her eyes. They continued to haunt me.  Where had I seen those eyes before? In them, I saw a tormented past. A lonely childhood.  Then, hidden deeper inside, there was an unbridled spirit. An undeniable determination.  I wondered if it was possible… But, the more I looked, the more I was certain.

                 The way I saw ‘Liz’, the way I saw her live her life: these were all reflections upon the way I wanted to live my own life. In her eyes, I saw my own.  Is ‘Liz’ an artist or writer? I didn’t know for sure, nor would I ever know, but I do know that writing creatively is my favorite pastime of all.  I do know that I want it to become my main vocation. That was how I pictured Liz’s life. Is she really like me? Does she wonder about what she should do with her life, as well? Maybe not. This is only a reflection on my views, after all. But maybe…

               The next morning, Liz sits once more on the sidewalk on Euclid Avenue. The date is the fourteenth of June. Silently, she watches as a bright, yellow school bus comes down the street. Painted in large black letters on the side are the words “Fairmont Private School Transportation”.  “Private school? Must be rich kids…” she mutters aloud. Suddenly, one of the windows slides down.

                “Hey!”

                She looks up in surprise to see a teenage boy inside.

                “Your hair is awesome!” he yells.

                With a wide smile, Liz flashes a thumbs-up signal to him. They grin at each other for a moment. Then, the bus turns left and is soon out of sight.