Lopsided

I was ten, sitting around in my room doing whatever it is ten-year-old’s do, when my mom asked me to cut her hair. I kept to myself mostly back then, even around my family, so there were many thoughts I had that I didn’t say to her as I walked obediently to the bathroom. Thoughts such as, “Are you crazy?” or “This is a horrible idea – I am only ten.”

But there were other thoughts such as, “I can cut a piece of paper really well, therefore I can do this. It’ll be fun,” that kept me going as I draped a towel over her shoulders and held the scissors in hand.

“Just cut this much,” she told me, and it really wasn’t much. I could probably eyeball an inch pretty well. Her hair was already wet since she had just showered, and the bathroom itself was still a little damp and warm. She sat on the ledge of the bathtub while I stood behind her on the plastic bags that lined the floor to catch the stray hairs.

I cut my mom’s hair, starting from the left side of her face, and I made my way over at a steady pace until I reached the right. The edges were smooth, and I beamed at her, knowing I did a great job. “I’m done!” I put the scissors down. How many ten-year-old’s can say they’ve successfully cut someone’s hair before?

Probably none.

She turned to face me, and I was horrified. She must have seen my shock, because she instantly stood up and raced to the mirror. She made a small little noise, one that kind of sounded like “oh”, and then for two straight minutes neither of us moved nor said a thing. We just looked at her reflection, and the fact that the right side of her hair was a full three inches shorter than the left.

My mom keeps a picture of her younger self in her wallet, and about twice a month she likes to come over and show me it, in case I forgot what she used to look like. She was and is incredibly proud of her beauty, and for good reason: my mom was beautiful, with a wide smile, bright eyes, and slight curls that perfectly framed her thin face. And so when my mom came home from the hair salon, for the purpose of severe damage control, it was my turn to say “oh.” I had never seen my mom with hair so short before, and it really did not work on her. Her hair was a hyper-voluminous bowl-cut that ended an inch above her chin. Not to mention that bright smile was wiped clean off her face for the next few weeks.

My mom eventually took to talking to me again, and as I entered high school and both of my sisters went off to college, she took to talking to me a lot. Usually I’d stay in my room doing homework, and once in a while she’d drop in, sit on the edge of the bed and just talk to me. I’d offer small grunts and nods to let her know that I was listening enough. She usually spent most of her nights cooking dinner for my dad before he got home from work, but as he began coming home less for dinner, and later into the night, she just talked more to me.

As my parent’s marriage began to unravel and fall apart, my mom almost went insane. She would open and slam doors in our house over and over again, and I didn’t really know what to do except to sit there and listen from my room.

And then the talking was suddenly nonstop. She complained about my dad, the rude things he said to her, and how unfair all of this was. For hours she would just plant herself on the bed, and as I did homework I would listen to all these things about my own dad that I didn’t want to hear.

Then one day I had it. “Can you please stop talking? Leave me alone.” I snapped at her.

For a while she sat there silently, soaking in what I had just said to her. “Why do you want me to stop,” she said menacingly. But I was too fed up to be scared.

“I still love Daddy. I don’t approve of everything he’s done and said, but he’s still my dad and I still love him.”

“You’re a traitor!” she screamed before leaving. And you’re unreasonable, I thought to myself. I could hear from my room the front door slamming.

My mom was gone for hours. Only later would I learn that she had mindlessly wandered around the neighborhood, walking as far as to the highway that cut across my neighborhood. She had begun walking across the stream of cars before they started honking at her and stopping before her. She snapped out of it and rushed off and home, long after I had gone to sleep. She stopped venting to me after that night. That might have actually been safer for her anyways.

It felt as though the bubbly, socially-adept and friendly mother I had always known was long gone. Replaced was a woman who was really bitter. I was bitter too, but after I closed my door on my mom I began to feel something else. Guilt. Shame. I didn’t know how to help her when her marriage was suddenly horribly lopsided. Like that day I cut her hair, all we could have done was just look at the mess and wonder how this all had gone so wrong, but this time I didn’t even want to look. Again, she bore the damage on her own.

After that night, she took to going to the gym, going to church, signing up for English classes and working part time. She kept herself busy, and the more damage control she did, the more she began to smile again. After a couple of years, she wasn’t just back to her usual self, but she was better. She made new friends, hung out a lot and sang way too often.

Even though my mom is now happier – no, more joyful – than she’s ever been before, a part of me still lingers on the fact that I failed to be there for her when she really needed me. Guilt still haunts me.

My past birthday, I turned 22, and I took my mom out on a date. After a day strolling through Brooklyn Bridge Park, eating out and taking photos as though we were tourists in New York City, she held my hand and gave it a small squeeze. “You have no idea how happy I am. My youngest daughter takes care of me.” She would later that night call up most of her friends to rave about what a great day she’s had, saying to them what she had said to me.

And I hope it’s true. Even though the worst of it is behind us, I hope it’s true and stays so.

 

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This story is also posted in an open story-sharing blog a few friends and I started. The theme for the month was “Failures” — if you want to read other stories, check them out here. Feel free to submit your stories as well!