ALL TANGLED UP

Gum was disgusting. Gooey. Worse than glue. And full of someone else’s germs too. Sarah was working to peel the gunky glob out of her hair but somehow it was multiplying–sticking onto her fingers and still stubbornly remaining in the matted tangle at the base of her neck. 

It probably hadn’t helped that her hair had already been windblown, curls messily pulled up into a top bun, tendrils constantly being tugged out by the gusts whipping between the apartment towers and office high-rises, only to be haphazardly stuffed back into the nest of curls and tangles after each crosswalk. By the time she’d flopped back in the bucket seat at Wrigley Field during the bottom of the 8th, slouching down with frustration and a strong desire to cry but refusing to do so in public, her hair looked like she’d been living feral on an island for two months–but, that was just what her curls did on a humid July afternoon when the wind was coming in strong off The Lake. After days like this it was just easier to hop in the shower and liberally apply conditioner than it was to try combing it out dry.

But there had been gum. Thick, gooey, mushy gum. The enthusiastic–and drunk–fans sitting behind her and Brad were effusive in all their reactions to the game. And while it was certainly not from altruistic motives, the food in their hands had been freely shared among their neighbors. There had been mustard splatting, beer sloshing, and gum falling out of mouths to get stuck on chairs in the row beneath them. Gum–waiting for Sarah when she slouched into her chair and slid down the seat. Gum–snagging deep into her curls that she hadn’t noticed until she was already driving herself home, trying hard not to cry while managing I-90. Somewhere past O’Hare she’d tried to straighten her bun and found the foul mess well-mashed into the tender hairs at the base of her neck.

Sarah wasn’t sure how it’d happened really: the break-up. Scratch that, she wasn’t sure how the relationship had turned into “not a relationship”. Leaning forward above her sink she turned her head sideways and rubbed more peanut butter into the knot she couldn’t see behind her head. 

Was it when Brad had stopped arranging Saturday brunches? It used to be that when he had to be out of town over the weekend for a work trip he’d call her and chat in-between his sales pitches, and then he’d make it up to her with a Monday night date. Then he said he was too busy with the start of the week to make Monday nights. Fair enough. Honeymoon periods eventually end, right? Then he’d said he was too busy to call between his weekend sales pitches. Well, he was working more leads, working hard. Working hard and saving up money. Money for their wedding. 

Okay, fair enough. They weren’t engaged yet. But they’d talked about it. Talked about the timing. And the money. And the things Brad would need to settle with his pipeline before he could focus on a wedding and a new home. Brad needed a secure sales portfolio. Which meant travelling. Which needed to happen before he could focus on Them.

Oily clumps of peanut butter and disintegrating gum fell into her hand. Sarah wiped the squishy mess onto the paper towel sheets she’d set beside the sink. 

Sarah caught a glance of her raccoon eyes in the mirror and hastily looked away. She needed a shower. She smelled of beer and ballpark. All she wanted to do was curl up and go to bed.

What was left of the disintegrating gum finally did seem to be working itself out of her hair. Thanks for the tip, Google. Unfortunately, it had been pre-tangled and re-tucked before all this. Now, after the peanut butter massage, it was even more mangled.

This was all such a mess! Why had Brad thought that a ball game was a good time to say, “I don’t think this is working any more. Anyway, it’s not working for me”? Why had she suggested they finish the game before talking about it? Why hadn’t she said something sooner? Like when Brad started being too busy to show up for their couples therapy? Why?

Dang it, she knew why. It was because she still loved him. And that made her feel sick–the still loving him part. Her stomach wanted to turn itself inside out, borrow the tongue scraper sitting beside her toothbrush, cleanse every curve, rinse off with some mouthwash, and shake itself off like a wet dog before going back into her gut, tucked right-side in. Honestly? She should’ve called it off five months ago. She saw that. Saw that Now. Clear as the brown and white gelatinous glop sitting on the countertop. 

Using a handheld mirror and standing with her back to the vanity mirror, she also saw the nasty mat she’d hoped wasn’t as bad as her blind fingers had hinted it might be. Yep–it was worse. The size of an egg. Truly knotted beyond repair. The fine strands invisibly twined from repeated tugging and “fixing”. 

Sarah felt the sting of mascara pooling in her eyes as the tears coursed down her face. Seemed like her face had been wet ever since she’d slammed the door on herself and drove away from Brad in the parking garage. 

Her hair. And her heart. Such a mess.

With a shaky breath Sarah forced herself to look at her own eyes in the mirror. 

She. Could. Do. This.

She knew she could. She would get through this.

Sarah reached inside the drawer on the vanity. Her fingers rummaged around, finding the plastic handles she was looking for. She pulled out the short tool. With her left hand carefully holding the knot away from her scalp, she raised the scissors with her right hand, nosing the blades to find the taut strands. 

She began to snip.