You Have Head Lice
She, a grown-up, takes me to a room that isn't too far from the large kitchen. As I enter, the door swiftly shuts behind me, blocking out the commotion of kids in the orphanage. The sound of water droplets falling at consistent intervals is almost unbearable, as if no one cares enough to fix the leak. The only source of natural light is a single window, highlighting the dark corners and dirty floor. The space feels desolate, humid, mirroring how my heart feels about my mama. Longing to be loved.
“Take off your clothes…all of it”, with a deep voice, she gestures her head for me to sit on the large wooden chair. She should wear glasses; I think to myself just because. And I do as I am told. No hesitation. She doesn't even spare me a glance, wearing a lab pen-mark-stained-white coat, as if she has more important things to do. Her name or age aren't important, just as mine aren't to her.
"Remain still," she orders, using a stern tone reminiscent of a sergeant. Her wrinkled bulging veins hand impatiently reaches for an electric device placed on an old, weathered wooden desk cluttered with must-have hairdressing tools. She must be someone’s loving grandma; a thought just buzzed by in my head, while waiting, scared - My little feet not being able to reach the floor.
She shows no emotion on her wrinkled face, greasy yellow hair pulled back haphazardly, adorning with wrinkles and jewelry for no particular reason. She must have a heart, as I do, I think to myself, confused. I can always hear my heart beating faster when I am called to the principal's office. Does that mean that my heart feels fear, too? I struggle to keep still, thinking about random thoughts. The mandatory uniform for this orphanage is to keep it simple. There's nothing interesting about her, except the fear she exposes on me. I'm too afraid to meet her gaze, so I keep my eyes down. Doing so, I notice. She doesn’t wear oversized slippers like we all do here.
“You have head lice. You need haircut,” she says, trying to excuse her actions, with a whatever and who cares silent sound at the end of her sentence. I start shaking, feeling cold, and vulnerable.
"Can't you just stay still!" she scolds, her voice growing more agitated as she bends down to get a better view. She doesn't care if her rough movements cause cuts or bruises. All that matters to her is erasing any remnants of hair from the back of my head with the buzzing machine in her hand. I don't know who to be angrier at: the machine or the woman operating it. All I can think about is how small and ugly she's making me feel. I'm relieved she can't hear my thoughts; if she could, I know I would be punished for them. Every part of me wants to let out a deafening scream and leap up towards the sky, disappearing into the unknown. But instead, I sit here in utter silence, tears streaming down my face uncontrollably. Grown-ups don’t make any sense, I thought to myself again.
She finishes by covering my head with a strong-smelling white cream. The nauseating scent fills my senses as the cream works to rid my hair of any headlice. After ten minutes or so, she covers my head with a big towel, orders me to get dressed without even looking at me, and leave the room. I do as I am told. No hesitation.
As soon as I open the door, I quickly wipe away my tears. I don't want anyone to see me. All I want is to disappear to nowhere, to run away from everything and everyone. It doesn't matter where I am going to end up, as long as I keep running...
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