I was fourteen years old and my hair was styled after my heroes Nick Rhodes and John Taylor of Duran Duran. Mousse, a blow dryer, and a round brush were used every morning to style an elaborate helmet of new wave protection against the viscitudes of adolescent fragility.
My family of four were guests at somebody's condo for a BBQ. When the sun was down, the children were given a $100 worth of illegal fireworks. My little brother, still buck toothed pre-orthodontics, packed a mayonnaise jar full of bottle rockets with a hammer. His technique had broken the wooden tails that would have guided them up and safely away from us.
A cluster of bottle rockets landed in my hair and fused with the mousse. I spun in a circle smacking myself in the head until I came to rest in a corner of the patio, fireworks wedged between scalp and vinyl siding. Ignition. Pulling away, my eyes could not make immediate sense of what I was seeing stuck to the wall. It was a cross between a hairpiece and a refrigerator magnet.
Running for cover, searching for a bathroom or a closet to hide in, who's house is this? There, there is the bathroom. People are following me in large numbers. I slide into the tiny baño, hitting the wall with great force. It was one of those guest loos that are under the stairs, just big enough to turn around in. A hand mirror, there is no blood, just a fast forming blister. Pounding on the door. Let us in! Laughter. We just wanna make sure your OK! Laughter.
Thinking fast, I grab what is at hand. Larger than a wash cloth, smaller than a bath sheet, I bend and drape it behind my head as I had seen my mother do so many times. Twist and stand. I open the door. In less than five seconds, the crowd is silenced by my turban. You are not needed here, I said royally. Please go.
