Page 48 of Tainted Love

Sascha

We browse the aisle at Thrifty’s minutes later, looking for boxed bleach for Michael’s hair. It’s not lost on me that I’m in this place, doing something with him that meant a lot to me when I did it with Lydia.

As I stand in the aisle looking at the various boxes, he sidles up next to me and asks with a mischievous grin, “So, what color do you use? ‘Devil’s Vixen’ perhaps?”

I can’t help but laugh. “No way, I’m a Black Velvet girl.”

His turquoise eyes sparkle as he cocks his head, those familiar wheels turning in his head. “I bet you are,” he says with a sly tone, his gaze dropping down to my crotch.

I roll my eyes and swat him with the stick from my Fun Dip. “You’re disgusting,” I scold.

“Just kidding,” he retorts, raising his hands in defense.

“Pick your color, and let’s go,” I reply firmly.

But as he gives me a wink and replies, “I like it when you’re bossy,” I can’t help but feel a surge of affection toward him.

“You’re such a child,” I chuckle, but there’s no malice behind it anymore. Our playful banter had become a comfortable routine between us.

***

I hold my breath as I squirt the pungent liquid into his hair. “This stuff stinks.”

He sits reluctantly on the toilet, grumbling about how much he hates this process. The smell of harsh chemicals fills the small bathroom, causing me to wrinkle my nose in disgust. Rotten eggs would be a welcome relief compared to this stench.

“You color your hair,” he reminds me. “It’s the same thing.”

“Not even close,” I retort with a laugh, trying to avoid breathing too deeply. “This is like industrial strength bleach.”

“Just hurry up,” he pleads, eager to finish this.

I massage the foul-smelling concoction into his scalp. We had considered only bleaching the tips, but once I looked at the ridiculous cap and calculated how long it would take, I made the executive decision to bleach it all.

“Okay, now we wait,” I say with a sigh, throwing my gloves into the trash and setting the timer on my Swatch watch.

“So, when did you decide to start coloring your hair?” he asks.

I pause momentarily, the memories stirring in my mind like old photographs. “Right before seventh grade,” I reply, a smile tugging at my lips as I recall the defining moment. “We were fostering a girl named Lydia. She was unlike anyone I had ever met—so confident and unapologetic. She colored her hair, listened to darker, more emotional music, and wore dark clothing. Everything about her fascinated me,” I admit.

When I glance at him, he’s listening quietly. No smart-ass remarks or quips, so I continue.

The memories of my friend flood back as I speak, and a pang of sadness grips my heart. “I had so much fun with her before she left,” I say fondly, thinking of our days together. “We colored my hair at the end of summer.”

“Do you still keep in touch with her?” he asks.

I can feel my voice trembling as I reply, “I haven’t heard from her in two years. It’s hard to keep in touch when life gets in the way, you know? She moved and had to take custody of her younger siblings, so now she’s fulfilling the role of a mom.”

“That must be tough for you,” he sympathizes.

I shrug. “I’ve lost a few friends to distance,” I admit. “I had a friend named Darius in middle school. He moved, too. I haven’t heard from him in forever.” A wistful smile spreads across my face as I remember our silly adventures and inside jokes.

Michael’s face lights up with recognition. “I remember that guy!” he exclaims, his voice filled with admiration. “He was hella cool.”

“He’s gay, you know,” I blurt out, almost challenging him to say something negative about it.

But instead of any judgment or hesitation, he shrugs. “So?”

“That doesn’t bother you?” I ask, still trying to grasp this new perspective.