Twisted Hair


Twisted hair fell off her head, masking her features from the cameras and flashes blocking her way. She looked down at the red carpet, ink spots swirling in her vision, trying desperately not to faint. Ray held her arm steady, guiding her through the throngs to the glass doors which promised peace.  Just a little further, she said to herself, and you’ll be there.


Her dress began to gather between her legs, almost alive, as if determined to make her trip. She tried to pull the folds out with her free hand, but the material seemed stuck to itself, full of electricity. She whimpered, and Ray held her arm tighter, promising to hold her up with brute strength if she needed him to. She sighed at that, holding onto his presence like a life preserver. Just a little further.


Lightening struck, and she stopped. She stood up straight and pushed the hair from her eyes. The wind picked up, and whatever hair she had failed to move, was blown back. She saw the photographers behind the flashes, and the reporters behind the cameras. They had continued to surge forward while she stopped, and were now trying to understand her sudden attention to them.  Ray loosened his grip on her arm and stood watching her.


“Excuse me,” she said, looking into the faces and eyes of her tormenters, “but would you mind backing up a little?  I’m really not feeling well because, as I am sure you know, I had a nasty fall a few days ago and am not yet recovered from it.”


The flashes continued unabated, however, seeming even more intent to capture her image as she looked around her. Where a minute ago there had only been the quiet burr of machines, now voices yelled out from the crowd, clamoring for her attention. She sighed, disappointed but not surprised. Ray took her arm again, and she returned to her forward push.  Just a little farther.