Mom blow-dries my hair into straw. Touches the frayed ends and crunches them between her fingers. “Your hair is so beautiful,” she says. “Don’t you think so?” I scan the room for empty wine glasses and find them in her eyes. Listen to the ocean outside our rented condo, breathe in and out, imagine myself receding with the waves. Nod and smile. Tell her it’s beautiful. Thank her and wait, shoulders tight, until she’s satisfied. My face is fractured by streaks of hair when she releases me. I rake my fingers through them, disappear before she finds her masterpiece ruined.
Elizabeth Erin Thomas is a technical writer aiming to publish a novel. Her work has previously appeared in 101 Words. Instagram: @elizwriting