A Memory of My Sister

Short Story by A.C. Cargill

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Forty years ago, I caved into my sister’s nagging. The memory is still clear.

“Why don’t you get a haircut?” she asked.

“Why should I?”

“It’s split not just at the ends but up the strands. And it gets all tangled. Remember the big knots I had to help you get out when you were a kid?”

“Yeah, that doesn’t happen so much now, Sis.”

“You’d look so much better.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

My sister just shrugged and left my apartment. We had been having a nice lunch before she had turned all mother hennish on me. She was two years older and couldn’t help herself. She paid a lot of attention to her appearance, including hair and makeup, whereas I wanted to show my real face to the world. Besides, attempts to style my hair – dark brown, as straight and lifeless as a piece of spaghetti, and easily tangled – usually flopped. So I had settled for wearing it loose, enjoying the feel of it swaying as I walked, or pulling it into a ponytail that swung back and forth as I moved my head.

A couple days after that lunch, I was combing out the tangles after washing that long hair and sat back realizing the truth. It was a pain and a hassle.