Mom plugs in the iron. I pull out the transistor’s broken antenna with my tweezers. Turn the dial to 99.9’s top ten countdown. Then lean my head against the ironing board. Mom’s fingers spread my hair. Ever so gently she irons out my frizzy curls. Since Dad left, that’s the only place she touches me. My ladies would kill for curls like yours. Their perms take two hours, and the stink from the chemicals! I nod, not daring to breathe as she does the comb-out. That should hold you until next week, Madam. The fancy tone she uses for her customers. What about bangs, Mom? Like the other girls. She clangs open the white step-stool beside the sink and says, Sit. Water squirts till the front sweep of my hair is damp. One more spray, Your Majesty. Pretending to miss. It tickles my left ear. Close your eyes, my darling daughter. Softly, softly, the scissors sing their song, in harmony with the Beatles’ latest hit.

Bio: Roberta Beary