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2001-07-20 || 11:19 a.m. || shampoo || their mother didn't buy shampoo. there was ivory soap in the cabinets and bath tub, and when they brought up the topic of shampoo, their mother would vaguely point past walls and painted doors to the soap piled like blocks of ice in the bathroom. their room filled with burning clean smells when they ironed their long hair in the afternoons in preparation to go out. they took turns: one head offered on the ironing board, plaintive, quiet, like awaiting the guillotine; one hand fastened to the iron, slowly moving across blond hair. the iron didn't work very well. sometimes there was smoke and they both feared hot metal. the tell tale smell of hair burning, soap melting. they saved their lunch money, didn't eat anything on fridays, and with growling stomachs stopped at the woolworth's on their way home from school. they walked quickly, anticipating the smell of plastic and perfume. they stopped at the last aisle. there were rows and rows of bottles and tubes. green and amber and pearly white. some with women with long blond hair. shampoo and conditoner and metallic bottles of hairspray. they held the weight of the bottles in their hands. discreetly unscrewed caps and smelled perfume and pearlescence. they recalled jingles and promises and traced printed slogans with their fingers. prell had the best commercial. prell was green and clean and smelled nothing like ivory soap. on the way home they placed the bottle in a back pack and walked fast. they walked past their mother and the sound of television commercials and made tracks in the carpet to their bedroom. the shampoo would go in the sock drawer. the shampoo would be brought out only when walking directly to the bathroom for a shower. there would be no pulling out the shampoo just for a smell, just to sit on one of the identical beds and imagine shiny healthy hair and all the beauty and treasures that went with it. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |