I hate my hair. It’s so plain and boring: mousy brown and poker straight. The only thing it has going for it is its length, which is midway down my back. Still, it’s impossible to put in any other style than the one I’ve been sporting since I was twelve - loose and parted in the middle.
Plain hair framing a plain face. Which is why, on a Friday evening, I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, listening to Stevie Wonder records and idly running a brush through my hair, instead of on a date, like my dorm mate Rachael, who is blonde and bosomy.
Sighing and tossing the brush aside, I pull on a cardigan and go out for a walk along the campus. Outdoors is dusky and tepid, with a gentle breeze lifting the strands of hair I so loathe. My head is down as I walk to avoid anyone I might know. I’m just not in the mood for any interaction.
And that’s when I bump into him.
I can hear the thump of books falling on the ground. Immediately I bend down to retrieve them, apologies tumbling from my lips. “I’m so so sorry, I --” Wow. He’s good-looking. Really good-looking; unlike the boys I’ve seen around here. Thick dark hair. Great bone structure. So well-dressed...and his arm in a sling.
“Oh my God. Now I really feel bad.”
“It’s ok; don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” His voice is smooth and deep, with a faint accent I can’t quite place. “I’m the one who thought I could carry all these books with just one arm.”
I don’t realize that I’m still holding onto the books until he reaches for them. “Here, let me --”
I’m not sure where my boldness is coming from, as I don’t socialize with boys all that much. But despite him being the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen, my ability to talk is as easy as breathing. “Where are you headed? I can carry these for you if you like. So you don’t drop them again.”
His smile is knee-weakening. “I would like that, very much. I’m just heading to my car,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the parking lot. On the way there, he compliments my hair. I respond by blushing and dropping my head so it falls in my face like a curtain, telling him how much I hate it.
“Well, I think it’s just lovely.” And I believe him.
We reach his Volkswagen Beetle. Still feeling bold as I watch him unlock his car, I say, “I’m Sabina, by the way. What’s your name?”
“Theodore.” He opens the door and turns to look at me; this time his smile is accompanied by an odd hardness in his eyes. “But you can call me Ted.”
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